An Apostate's Abominable Guide to Kirkwall
by Sparrow Nightrunner
Summary: Kazar Surana had thought he'd escaped Templars, Warden duties, and all the drama that came with being a partial abomination when he'd fled Ferelden. He was even finding something close to peace among the Dalish. Then, Hawke happened. (A sequel to All Roads Lead to Denerim)
1. When Climbing Sundermount, Bring a Guide

**An Apostate's Abominable Guide to Kirkwall**

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_Author's Notes:_

_This is the Dragon Age II sequel to All Roads Lead to Denerim. You may want to read ARLD first, otherwise this will get _really_ confusing. Then again, if you're only interested in DA II, go ahead and give it a shot. Just don't say I didn't warn you. :)_

_This one does have a main character, because there was a certain Warden in dire need of a personal redemption arc who ended ARLD heading for Kirkwall. That is a much fresher story than any simple retelling of DA II, don't you think? (Also, it lets me continue playing with one of the most fun characters from ARLD... so that may be an ulterior motive...)_

_So, yeah, there will be many Hawke-related shenanigans, but this is about Surana too, so the first part is going to spend some development time outside Kirkwall._

_I've been forced to expand my already shaky use of Elvish. I like to think my usage makes sense, but be warned that many of the phrases I use may not be entirely canon._

_Extra Note: __**I will not be updating daily**__. I've got a buffer, but not enough to update quite that quickly. Oh how I've spoiled you guys in the past. XD  
_

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**Part 1: Sundermount**

**1. When Climbing Sundermount, Bring a Guide **

His breath misted the air, erupting in clouds that curled and dissipated into the surrounding fog. The atmosphere was thin, hanging wet and cool against his skin. Around him was pale silence, the grey mists revealing and concealing stony outcroppings and twisted foliage on a whim. The only things he could sense with any regularity were the hard crunch of the mountain path underfoot and the sound of his own panting breath against the dead silence.

The red-and-green blur in front of him coalesced, and his single companion emerged from the fog, her tattooed face frowning in concern. Her bright, beaded red hair was the only color that wasn't _brown_ for miles around. "Do you require a rest, _da'lethallin?_"

Kazar shook his head, even as his traitorous body took advantage of the respite to lean heavily on his staff. Never had he been so glad for the Grand Oak branch's twisted shape, allowing him to grip its spikes and curves despite utter exhaustion.

He had neglected to consider that Meila Mahariel did not take crap from anyone, much less the sixteen-year-old apostate she had essentially designated herself guardian of. What was it about him that made women develop big sister complexes, anyway?

"Come," the archer said, taking his hand to lead him off the path. "We will rest for a few minutes."

Kazar sighed and followed, carefully skirting around what had once been a well of some kind. Meila ducked behind a ruined stone wall, and Kazar trailed after her, his free hand running idly along the cold bricks. He sat down on the end of a tumbled wall, sighing with relief despite his earlier denial. His leg muscles were screaming from the long climb, not to mention the week of constant movement before that. Meila handed him a rejuvenating potion, and he nodded a thanks before downing the awful-tasting concoction. Ugh. Meila's potions were effective, but taste was not something she took into account when making them.

A year ago, Kazar Surana would never have thought he would come to this. Back then, his whole life since age four had been spent locked in a tower, his every move watched by the Templar Order. In a constant, droning loop, he'd been told to hold back, and to behave, and to never, ever give into the demonic voices that promised greater things in his dreams.

He'd never have imagined that Duncan would come and pull him out into the wide world. He could not have predicted the Pride Demon that would attach itself to him like a leech. He could never have guessed that Jowan would turn blood mage. He could never have known that he would fight an archdemon and rip it out of the sky... _twice_.

He certainly would have never guessed that, a couple weeks shy of turning seventeen, he would be climbing some mountain in the Free Marches, following a Dalish elf who had become the closest thing to family he had ever had.

Kazar handed the potion bottle back to Meila, and she tucked it back in her pouch.

"What do you think these are from?" he asked idly, waiting for the potion to work its magic.

"To what do you refer, _da'lethallin_?"

He waved a hand around them. "The ruins. Why are they ruined: battle or time? Or was it just the crazy stupid location?"

Meila's usually stony face flickered with a smile. "Occasionally, it is advantageous to dwell off the main path."

"On top of a _mountain_? Only if you never want any trade ever." His limbs tingled, and the exhaustion seeped out of him. He stood. "Guess that explains why the Dalish would be up here, right?"

"We go wherever the halla lead us," Meila said, turning to head back out of the ruins.

"Yeah, sure. Funny how the halla always pick hidden spots in the middle of nowhere." The path crunched underfoot as they resumed the winding trek up the mountain.

Kazar could not guess what signs Meila was following, exactly. He couldn't see a thing in the mountain fog. But whatever Meila was following, they must have been close. (They better be, after tracking the damned clan across a fricking _sea._) She was silently thrumming with excitement, though anyone who knew the stoic elf less than Kazar did wouldn't have noticed.

Yeah, going through several personal revelations and then saving the world tended to bond people together. Even _Alistair_ was tolerable, after that.

It was good to see her smiling in her own Meila way. She'd been morose since leaving Denerim behind, and that amount of _feelings _made Kazar feel all twitchy and snippy. Yeah, she was missing her bard. Huzzah for her coming out of her shell enough to fall in love with a human—and Kazar was honestly still flabbergasted that Meila had given that up for _him_—but for a while there, he'd thought he'd have to open up and _talk_ about things, and that was just crossing the line.

No way was he going to be passing out the hugs and condolences. Just... no.

Meila's form blurred with the fog as she pulled ahead again, too excited to wait for her less-physically-oriented counterpart. Not that Meila was _big_ or anything, but her slender form was pure, stubborn muscle. Kazar was small and delicate, even for an elf, and most of his form was made of something a great deal squishier than whatever Meila was.

It was what was inside Kazar's small form that made him dangerous. That was why they were here.

Suddenly, the cold silence that had been their constant companion was broken by a shrill birdcall. Kazar jumped as the sound echoed through the fog around him and was promptly picked up by another on their other side. A third call answered behind them.

Kazar's grip tightened on his staff, and he stopped walking. His heart was racing, and he was a bad scare away from unleashing a fireball into the fog. Those weren't birds... he _knew_ they weren't birds.

For a moment, Kazar missed having Fang around... but no, Meila's stupid wolf had been too dumb to get on the boat back in Ferelden, so it was just the two of them.

Meila stopped walking, and when she cupped her hands to her mouth and released a birdcall of her own, Kazar jumped again. It echoed off the mountain around them and faded back into eerie silence.

Then, shadows moved in the mist, coalescing into three figures. They emerged from the fog from different directions, bows raised warily before them. But as soon as the two groups could see one another clearly, their bows were lowered in shock.

The sandy-haired elf in front of them nearly dropped his jaw to the ground. "_Elgar Mythal..._ Meila?"

And Meila _smiled, _very near a _smirk_. "_Aneth ara_, Fenarel."

Kazar cast a look at the other two. One, a woman with brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, studied him with her head tilted to one side. She had a pair of wicked-looking daggers strapped to her back. The other, a man with black hair long enough to spill into his face, wore a scowl, but he, too, had at least lowered his bow. Kazar was a little annoyed to note that even the woman was just a little bit taller than he was.

"What are you doing here?" Fenarel said. "Not that it isn't good to see you, _lethallan_."

"I think the question you're searching for," the new female said in a sharp, amused voice, "is what are you doing here, with a _flat-ear_? You're not usually the type to lead strangers straight to our camp."

Kazar bit back an acidic response. He had to be on his best behavior here, because if they turned him out, he had literally nowhere else to go.

"He is the reason I am here, Ineria," Meila said in a calm, steady voice. "I seek an audience with Marethari."

Fenarel exchanged a look with the third elf, and a brief, silent communication passed between them. The darker elf nodded and ran off, disappearing into the fog.

"Well," Ineria said, stowing her bow, "you might as well come the rest of the way with us. You're like to find the camp whether we lead you or not, and we should at least pretend to escort you."

Fenarel nodded, a subtle smirk similar to Meila's teasing his lips. "It is good to have you back, _lethallan_."

The two Dalish turned and started up the mountain path, and Meila tossed Kazar a look that was probably supposed to be encouraging. He wrinkled his nose to show her how much that helped, but nonetheless fell in step behind the other elves.

He found himself nervously dusting his robes off as they walked, and stilled his hands. Sure, he probably looked like a mess after the long journey (and stank a mess, too), but he doubted elves that spent their entire lives eschewing civilization would care. Who knew; maybe they saw road dust as a badge of honor or something?

More to the point, he could not show just how scared he was. They were his only chance to fix himself, and he refused to look like a nervous ninny during their first meeting.

As they walked, the first thing he noticed was the sound up ahead: the crackling of a fire, animal noises, and voices raised in conversation and, in the cases of children, bubbling laughter.

Then, they rounded a fall of rocks and the mist lifted enough to see the camp spread before them. The landships were tucked against the rock faces on either side. A bonfire roared bright in the center of the camp, its light occasionally interrupted by a figure moving in front of it. The smell—the fire, and herbs, and the ever-present scent of halla—kicked an old memory out of hiding. Not just of Zathrian's clan a few months ago, but something far older and far more precious.

That had been happening from time to time, ever since Felicity Amell had taken her little tour through his psyche: a strain of music or a scent would summon a sensation of familiarity, or a faded image of a home he'd never had. It was never clear, and always brief, but he couldn't stop himself from straining after the old memories. They reminded him that he'd had a life before the Circle Tower, and a home, and a family that had loved him.

Not that he'd _ever_ mention _any_ of that aloud. Not even to Meila.

Still, as they walked into camp, Kazar had to control the hitch in his breathing as the familiarity struck that same basic chord in him. What had seemed strange and alien back in Zathrian's camp only felt normal now. As if his brain was saying, yep, this is a Dalish camp. Ho hum.

That thought made him instinctively reach to find out what the _other_ half of his mind was saying, only to flail into that gaping emptiness that throbbed even now. He cursed under his breath. How had he not trained himself out of doing that by now?

There were elves everywhere. Wide-eyed, smiling faces stopped their tasks to watch them pass, and excited chatter followed them, mostly in Trade but occasionally interspersed with Elvish exclamations.

A figure near the fire stepped forward to greet them, and they were met with a smiling, elderly elven woman wearing Keeper robes. "_Da'len, n'arla atisha._" _Welcome home, child._

"_Halam aravel, _Keeper." _I've returned._

Both women smiled broadly, and the elder's eyes watered. The elder stepped forward to grasp the younger's arms in obvious welcome.

Kazar noticed that his grip on his staff was turning his knuckles white, and forced his hand to relax. He looked away, turning his attention to studying the crowd of elves gathered around them.

Curious faces surrounded them, swirling facial tattoos sorted into rows while a scattering of clean-faced children shamelessly stared at Kazar. The clan was whispering amongst themselves, positing questions about why Meila was back, and who the small blond elf behind her was. Kazar tuned them out and ended up staring down at his feet.

"I had not expected you to return to us so soon, _da'len_. Are your duties to the Grey Wardens finished?"

"Not finished, Keeper, merely changed." He glanced up to see that both women had turned to look at him. "We have come here seeking your aid."

Keeper Marethari's gaze was unhurried but sharp, taking in all of him with a careful sweep of her eyes. He froze under her scrutiny, unsure whether he should be all humble and pleading (psh, yeah right) or pull out his game face and show her that, yeah, he could out-arrogant the best of the Dalish elves.

Showing a bunch of armed elves his Prideful side? Yeah, that wouldn't end well for anyone.

Too late anyway. Her first impression of him was as a tattered traveler, curled around his staff and frozen like an apprentice caught sneaking around afterhours.

"Welcome," the Keeper said at last, in Trade. She stepped around Meila to address him, her eyes hooded and considering. "I am Keeper Marethari of the Sabrae Clan."

This was the part where he had to make nice. Very aware of the eyes peering at him curiously from all sides, he cleared his throat and pulled some courage from the roiling doubts that filled him. "I'm Kazar. Surana."

"And what brings you to us, child?"

He tamped down a flash of annoyance at being called a 'child'... if she was calling Meila a child, then, yeah, it may not have had much to do with Kazar's age. _Still_, though. He was nearly _seventeen_. "I need your help with a... delicate matter. Meila says you know some ancient magic that could help me."

"That would depend upon the nature of the problem," Marethari said carefully. "Tell me, what is it that ails you?"

He felt the tips of his ears warm, now _very_ aware of the entire clan's attention. "I think we should probably talk about it in private."

"I see." The Keeper nodded. "Come, then." She beckoned with one graceful hand, and both Wardens followed as she led them away from the fire, evincing an uproar of excited babble from the crowd around them.

They were led to a tent... except that "tent" was not really an accurate description. As they drew closer, Kazar realized that it was actually a large _wagon_, with a dozen hides connected on top and around it to create canopies, separations, and a walled-off shelter in the back. The combination of wood and hide created a confusing vision of a heavy abode at the same time that the presence of wheels at the bottom of the cart hinted at mobility.

Kazar stopped himself from gawking as the two women ducked under the canopy into the private tent-area at the back of the _aravel_. He followed, and Marethari tugged the hide closed behind him.

The interior of the _aravel _was dimly lit, pale gray sunlight peeking in through holes in the top and glowing tan through the hide sides of the tent. The semi-circle of ground inside was covered with mats made from grass and leather, giving the interior a sharp, planty smell. Three sides of the interior were bordered by the tent walls, while the fourth was bordered by the back of the wagon itself.

The bed of the wagon was about chest-height for Kazar and featured an extended living area on the wood, complete with bedroll. Kazar leaned his staff against it.

"Have a seat, child," Marethari said soothingly. He turned to see her pulling a set of ceramic cups from a chest tucked under the cart. A quick application of ice then fire magic filled three of them with hot water, and the Keeper sprinkled a few leaves into them.

Meila was already sitting cross-legged on one of the mats on the ground, and Kazar slowly lowered himself down to sit next to her. Marethari knelt in front of them and handed them each a cup, and Kazar stared down into the murky tea dubiously.

"Tell me, _da'len._" The Keeper said smoothly, turning to Meila. "How was your journey?"

"It was... interesting. I learned much about the ways of the humans."

Kazar brought the tea to his lips, wrinkling his nose at the bitter taste.

"Humans, not _shemlen_?" Marethari said, hiding a smile behind the motion of sipping her own tea.

"I no longer consider all humans as such."

"Go on, _da'len_."

Meila tilted her head thoughtfully. "One cannot hold the entire race responsible for what a few did long ago. It is far better to judge by an individual's actions and intent."

Kazar felt a stab of amusement. Yeah, he'd learned that lesson the hard way, too. Except, instead of hating just _humans_, Kazar had hated _everyone_.

_That is because no one can match my power and ability. They are unworthy of me._

Kazar growled and shook his head vigorously to clear that thought out. It wasn't his...even though there was no one else in his head anymore.

_"Da'lethallin_? Are you all right?"

Kazar looked up to find both women looking at him. Meila looked concerned, in that stoic way of hers. Marethari, however, observed him sharply. What had she seen?

He shook his head. "M'fine."

"I think," Marethari said, setting her tea down, "it is time we discuss why you sought me out. Tell me, Kazar Surana... what is this delicate matter you wish for me to help with?"

The mage stared down into his tea, wondering how he could broach this subject without sounding like a menace and a jerk.

Meila, the epitome of emotional unavailability, leaned over and gently put a hand on his shoulder. "Simply begin with the beginning, _da'lethallin. _The Keeper will not judge."

He huffed a disbelieving breath, but that was as good a place to start as any. "Right. Well... I guess it started when I met this demon named Mouse."

"I see." Marethari leaned back and clasped her hands. "And where did you meet this demon?"

"The Fade, where else?" Kazar fidgeted with the teacup. "I didn't know he was a demon at first. He claimed to be another mage, and helped me kill a Rage Demon to get through my Harrowing. I only realized what he was when, afterwards, he asked to leave the Fade with me. I said no, and he... let me go."

"It is unusual for a demon to give up so easily." The Keeper tilted her head and studied him. "I take it you saw this demon again?"

Kazar bobbed his head in the affirmative and set his teacup down on the mat beside him. "In my dreams. He... courted me, I guess would be the word? It was during the middle of the Blight, and we were under a lot of pressure, and I was just looking for _anyone_ who wasn't angry at me for some reason. Shit, I sound like I'm trying to make excuses." His hands were shaking. He reached up to rub his face. "I'm not. I don't... think there's any justification, except that I was too stupid and weak to see him creeping in as I gave him opening after opening."

"Demons are a difficult temptation, even to the strongest of us," Marethari said lightly. "In fact, it is often the strong who find them most alluring, as they take advantage of our strengths as much as our weaknesses."

Kazar scoffed into his hands.

Marethari raised her eyebrows. "If I might ask, what manner of demon do we speak?"

"Pride." He raised his head and took a breath. "He was a Pride Demon. A strong one."

"I cannot help but notice, child, that you speak of him as if he is already gone."

Kazar winced, because that was the issue, wasn't it? "I'll... get to that." She motioned for him to continue, and he went on. "I made a mistake, and made a deal with a different demon to learn blood magic." He watched her face carefully, but she revealed nothing. "Mouse got louder after that, more insistent. I think we started leaking together a little bit. We started having conversations while I was awake, and I found myself agreeing with him more and more often."

"You joined with this demon." It wasn't a question. Marethari's face was a mask, but she didn't kick him out. That was a good thing, right?

Kazar nodded slowly. "I was... an abomination for about two weeks. Luckily, a f-friend of mine knew a blood magic ritual that let a mage go into a particular demon's Fade realm, and I was... extricated."

This finally drew a reaction from the Keeper. Her brow furrowed, and she leaned forward to peer at him intently. "You say that you were separated after becoming a full abomination? I had not heard of such a thing being possible, save by death."

"Well... that's the problem, actually."

"Go on." She was intent, now.

"The demon's gone. At least, the entity that _was_ the demon is gone... dead or kicked back into the Fade, I'm not sure. But it... left pieces behind."

"What pieces?"

"Memories." His hands were shaking again, and he found his shame lowering his voice to a whisper. "Impressions. Thoughts, sometimes. I can usually tell when something comes from the demon, but when I'm upset, or angry, or using my magic... it just surges up, and suddenly I feel like the abomination again." His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat to fix it. "I need help. I don't know what I might do if I lose control. I don't want to be an abomination again." He met her eyes earnestly, summoning more honesty than he was really comfortable with. "Please, Keeper, if you know of any way to fix me, I'll do anything to earn it. I swear."

"That is a laudable intent, child," Marethari sighed. "However, I fear there may not be a way to fix your condition."

Kazar slumped, that last light of hope snuffed. He was stuck like this?

"Unfortunately, it seems that a certain portion of your two beings, once joined, are inseparable. I suspect attempting to mend you further would only further fracture you. This demonic presence is part of you, child."

"I don't _want_ it," he hissed in frustration. "And I'm not a _child_!" He snapped his eyes up to see that Marethari's expression had frozen in shock. "I will not be condescended to!"

"_Da'lethallin_!"

The chiding made him bristle, but then he noticed the malevolent red light filling the tent. "Fuck!" He slapped a hand over his own (glowing red) eyes, breathing harshly until his defensive anger settled down.

The two women were silent, so that the only sound in the tent was Kazar's panting breaths and the muffled noises of the camp going about its business outside.

Finally, the Keeper broke the silence. "I see what you mean," her voice said calmly, as if they were discussing the weather. "While it is unfortunately true that I have no means of fixing the broken parts of your soul, perhaps there is another way I might help."

Warily, Kazar lowered his hands, cautiously squinting them open to see that the red glow was gone. Marethari met his gaze with no fear, nor hatred. No, her expression was open and comforting. "How?" he dared.

"You are from a Circle Tower, correct?"

He nodded.

"It is obvious to me that these humans did not properly teach you control. If they had, you would have been better able to defend yourself from the demon's encroachments in the first place."

"Yeah, no arguments there. Their idea of proving you can withstand demons is throwing you at one and killing you if you fail."

The Keeper nodded sagely. "As such, I think I may be able to help you with your control. The demon will never be gone from you, but you may, in time, be able to function without worrying about its emergence."

Kazar dared to feel hope again. "How much time?"

She arched a brow. "This is not a lesson that can be learned overnight, if that is your intention."

He shook his head. He didn't know what his intention was. "However long it takes. I... it's not like I've got anywhere else to go." Meila's hand landed gently on his shoulder.

"Then take your ease with us tonight. We will provide you food, and a bed, and, on the morrow, we will begin."

He swallowed thickly. He hadn't really expected the Keeper to take him. It was like being rescued by Duncan all over again. "Thank you, Keeper."

She reached forward to lay a hand on his arm, and he fought not to twitch at the unfamiliar touch. "This will not be an easy journey, Kazar Surana, but in seeking me out, you have taken the first step of many. In this, I am happy to be your guide."

He nodded, his throat feeling all clogged up. By the Fade, was he _tearing up? _He dashed those before they could see the light of day, and both women politely looked away, pretending not to see.

Marethari turned to Meila. "It is time, _da'len_, that I stop keeping you to myself. I suspect the clan is most eager to hear of your journey."

Meila nodded and stood. "Thank you, Keeper." She gave the Keeper a salute and ducked out of the tent. Kazar moved to climb to his feet, but a hand on his arm made him pause.

"I suspect that I should thank you."

He stared at her blankly. "Thank me? Why?"

"Meila Mahariel has always built a shell around herself. It kept her strong and safe, but isolated her as well. It is good to see her emerge from it. And so, thank you.

Kazar nodded slowly, and she let him move away. He picked up his staff and pushed through the hide flap that separated him from the rest of the world.


	2. Respect the Dalish Camp

**2**. **Respect the Dalish Camp**

Stepping out into the misty camp, he spotted Meila's bright hair right away.

She was standing not far from the Keeper's _aravel_, surrounded by a handful of elves. She was deep in conversation with an older woman, and Kazar once again noted that Meila was _smiling_. All the elves around her seemed to find that more baffling than even Kazar did.

Yeah, maybe Marethari had a point about that.

Kazar watched them for a minute, the older woman smiling fondly at her and Meila nodding and smiling back—even accepting a hug from the elder—and, for a brief moment, the sight _hurt._ Kazar turned away and decided to take a tour of the camp instead of inserting himself into that unwelcome bundle of emotions.

He'd had enough of that crap today to last him a while, anyway.

The fire in the center of the camp burned hot and bright, making everything smell like smoke. But still, it warmed the camp and burned most of the mountain mist out of the air. Kazar could see the large wooden shapes of the _aravels_ all around him, some stacked with barrels and supplies while others had been draped with canvas and hides in a way similar to Marethari's. In front of one _aravel_ was a wooden worktable with an old man and a pair of younger adults working around it. Wooden benches built from tree branches were set around the camp in odd intervals. One near the camp entrance was occupied by an elf who seemed to be doing some sort of maintenance on her bow that was utterly lost on the mage.

A trio of children burst out of the bushes from off to one side, the kids laughing and shouting. One had a strip of cloth in one hand as he ran across the camp, holding his prize high, while the other two gave chase. Kazar had to bite back a smile... he remembered playing games like that with Jowan... sneaking around at night and torturing the poor Tranquils in the stockroom by rearranging their stores.

"Well don't just lurk there, child," a craggy female voice said nearby, and Kazar jumped to realize that one of the figures near the fire was gesturing to him. "Come. Be of use."

Carefully, Kazar took a step toward her, only for her to beckon more insistently. She was veritably ancient, but was dressed in the same functional clothing that the younger non-hunter women seemed to favor. He walked to her side, his step hesitating only a moment as he saw the fogginess of her eyes.

"Do all Dalish call people 'child'?" he asked with some annoyance.

"It is one of the few perks of growing old," she said blithely and thrust a bowl into his arms. It was full of some sort of nut. "The seeds must be removed from the shells." She went on to bend over a platter of tall grasses and to skillfully shuck the grains from the stalks.

Kazar stared down at the bowl in his lap for a moment, then gave a mental shrug and started cracking the nuts open as directed.

A giggle sounded from his other side. "He's been here ten minutes, _hahren _Vinell. Don't you think it a bit cruel to put him to work already?" A girl about his age with blond pigtails sat down at his other side, holding a cooking pot and peering over at the older elf with a grin. Kazar noticed that her face was clear of the Dalish tattoos.

"He was just standing about," said the elder. "Idle hands make mischief. Busy hands make dinner."

Kazar snorted and cracked open another shell. "Is that a Dalish idiom or something?"

"No," the girl said. "That's a _hahren_ Vinell idiom." She poured a pitcher of water into her cooking pot. "I'm Viriel. Is it true you'll be staying with us?"

"Word gets around fast, huh?"

"Well, we have to figure that's the case if the Keeper didn't send you away straightaway." The girl shrugged and started scooping up some of the nuts Kazar had cracked. "Tell me, are you from a different clan?"

That was... a surprisingly more complicated question than it would have been a year ago. "I grew up among the humans," he hedged.

"Oh, really?" She peered at him. "But your _vallaslin_... is that why it's not in any of the traditional designs? I had assumed your markings were simply from a different clan."

"It's not polite to pry, _da'len_," Vinell chided.

"But you cannot see his tattoos, _hahren_. They're fascinating, but not like any of the ones we use."

"The children always get this way as the time of their _vallaslin_ comes near," Vinell said conspiringly. "They think they know everything about the old traditions."

_Better that audacity of the young than the tyranny of the old_. He clenched his fists reflexively and forced that thought down before it had time to fester.

"Not everything," the girl said cheerfully, unaware of Kazar's mental flailing. "But learning is part of the journey." She used the spit to suspend the pot over the fire.

Kazar didn't have anything to say to that that wasn't a snark, so he bit his tongue and concentrated on cracking his bowl of nuts.

It was meditative, in a way, to engage in a repetitive manual task. Not that it was particularly exciting—it reminded him of doing lines back during his schooling—but there was a simple, steady rhythm to it that soothed the last of his discomfort. The part of him that was still waiting for the Dalish to suddenly grab him and throw him off a cliff faded away as time passed. The elder took the boiling pot off the fire and added her grains and the rest of Kazar's nuts, then set it aside. As she reached for the next task, accompanied by the loud sound of boiling water, Kazar took the opening and slipped away (to much knowing giggling on Viriel's part).

He put some distance between himself and the fire, just so he couldn't be guilted into cooking with the old woman again, and then moved to one of the empty _aravels_ at the edge of the clearing. He glanced around to see if anyone minded him leaning on it, but no one paid any more attention than a curious glance. With a shrug, he settled against the wagon and cast around to see if he could spot Meila.

It took a surprising amount of time. It was unexpected how many members of the clan had bright hair, leathers, and wicked bows strapped to their backs. It took Kazar a few minutes to locate her, now with a cluster of three other hunters who were wearing the same sorts of leathers she was (including, in the case of the other female, the skimpy little midriff-baring number that Dalish seemed so fond of).

As always eerily uncanny about her surroundings, she sensed his eyes on her and sent a glance across the camp at him. He sent her a smirk and waved her silent concern off... the sort of motion that said, "I'm fine. Go play with your friends." She nodded and returned to whatever she had been talking about. Probably hunting... things. Shooting stuff, or whatever.

Kazar stifled a sigh, slumping back against the wagon. All around him, the elves were busy doing things... there never seemed to be an idle hand. Some sewed, while others worked at a mortar and pestle, and one toted a cistern around to fill waterskins. Everyone here obviously had a place in the great turning wheel of the clan. Kazar felt distinctly like an outsider... which was a feeling that did not sit well with him. He was Dalish, wasn't he? He should feel more at home here than he had ever felt at the Circle.

_It's because of the _shemlen_. They took me from my home and forced me into subservience. If I'd stayed, I'd be a Keeper by now._

A flicker of red crossed his vision, and he snapped a hand over his eyes until he mastered that unpleasant little thought. Not out in the open, for the Fade's sake!

There was a sound from the back of the wagon, and Kazar startled, the demonic influence dissipating for the moment. He froze, worried that someone had seen something incriminating (Marethari may have understood, but he wouldn't put the rest of the clan above shooting an abomination on sight).

There was a thunk and a mumbled curse, and a young man stumbled around the corner, dragging one foot in the manner of a person who had just tripped. His hair was the same strawberry blond that Kazar's was, and his face, like Viriel's, was also clean of tattoos, despite the fact that he was a couple years older.

The newcomer hopped to a stop and looked up, his green eyes going as round as saucers when he spotted Kazar leaning against the wagon. They stared at one another, frozen in mutual startlement, before the absurdity hit Kazar, and he snorted a laugh.

"Smooth," Kazar deadpanned.

The other elf huffed, ears turning red. "The carts jump out at me, I swear," he said in a Fereldan accent, then knelt down next to Kazar to inspect one of the wagon's wheels.

That piqued Kazar's curiosity. "You're from Ferelden?"

"Denerim." The elf unhooked a prying tool from his belt and reached through the spokes to fiddle with something on the axle. "Name's Pol."

Kazar relaxed back and watched the elf work, glad that there may be someone who understood after all. "I'd introduce myself, but I already did once, and I'm pretty sure the entire camp heard it."

Pol's face twitched in a smile. "That we did. Kazar, right?"

"Yep."

Something made a creaking sound under the cart and Pol jumped back. Kazar watched, amused, as the other elf stared at the wheel as if expecting it to bite him. Then, he crawled back in and started working through the wheel again.

"I knew an elf from Denerim. In the Wardens."

"Yeah? Who? Maybe I knew him."

"Finian Tabris?"

Pol twitched, thwacking his head and right hand against the wheel _hard_, and Kazar barked a laugh. Pol swiveled to pin him with a wide eyes, idly nursing his injured hand with the other. "_Fin_? A Grey Warden? Are you serious?"

Kazar didn't bother hiding his smirk. "I take it you knew him, then."

"Well, yeah. The guy didn't let you_ not_ know him." Pol shook his head in disbelief, still rubbing his hand. "The pickpocket, a Warden. Maker, I can't believe it."

Kazar quirked his head. "Don't you mean '_Creators_, I can't believe it'?"

Pol paled, giving Kazar a nervous glance. "Yeah, of course." He turned back to the wheel, picking up his tool again. "Don't tell the Keeper... I'm still trying to break that habit."

Kazar shrugged. "Wouldn't be much point. It'd be the mabari calling the Qunari vicious."

Pol huffed a laugh. "That's a pretty good one."

"Let's just say I've known both a Qunari and a mabari. An interesting fact: they both like cake."

Pol gave him a quizzical look, then his hand slipped and it banged against the spokes again. He hissed a curse and sat back.

"What are you trying to do?" Kazar asked curiously.

"Master Ilen needs to fix a crack in this wheel, but I can't get it off the wagon. One of the nails is stuck."

Kazar bent down to peer into the well behind the wheel. He could see the place where Pol was working: the connection between wheel and axle. It looked like the wood had expanded over one of the nails, giving Pol no leverage to pry it loose.

Kazar pointed a finger, and a quick application of fire to burn off excess gunk, then ice to push the nail out from behind, had the troublesome bit of metal clinking to the dirt in nothing flat.

Pol yelped and_ leaped_ back, scrambling away from Kazar like he was an angry bear, and the expression on the elf's face matched. "Yo-you're a mage?!"

Kazar stood up straight, now annoyed. "I would have thought the staff and robes would give it away. How does no one ever notice the staff and robes?"

_Because they're fools who__–_ and he snuffed _that_ thought before it could form, because he did _not_ need to be confirming all the other elf's fears right now.

Pol continued to stare, frozen, and Kazar rolled his eyes and stomped off. His anger was spiking, and he needed somewhere to cool off before he turned into a demonic firefly. It figured that the one person who understood what it was like to be a flat-ear was stuck in the Chantry's "mages bad" mindset.

_He's a sniveling coward. _

_I don't need him._

_I don't need anyone. I'm better than all these people._

He was slipping, and he scrabbled mentally after the vestiges of his control. Hard to do, when he was shaking with self-righteous anger.

He retreated up a path that sloped up out of camp. A roll of contempt washed over him, followed by hatred.

They could never hope to understand. Arrogant, bigoted elves. None of them could understand what he'd been through, and how strong it had made him.

He secreted himself in a nook between rocks, out of sight of the camp, and sat down. Then, he leaned back against the rock, closed his eyes, and indulged in a vivid fantasy of burning all the know-it-all Dalish in their tents, bringing their world down with a torrent of lightning and fire.

Then, he would turn his fury on the nearby human city he'd noticed on the way here... clean that hive of scum off the face of Thedas. He would roam around the Free Marches, destroying all the wretched weaklings until none but himself remained to remake the world.

He opened his eyes and smiled at the thought, not even caring that cracks of red light were breaking apart all over his skin. His magic was thrumming through him at the moment, hot and strong and so wickedly _dark_ that it made him yearn to unleash it, just to see what it would do. He was power. They wouldn't understand, and the thought of showing them made him giggle.

He was contemplating doing just that when a nearby voice, light as a wisp, said, "Hello? Is someone there?" and brought him crashing back to reality.

He couldn't be discovered. If they saw him like this, the idiots wouldn't understand, and he had nowhere else to go.

_Shit_. _Gotta snuff the light..._ _I'm an idiot. I'm weak. I let Jowan die for me._

A young elven woman in robes rounded into view up the path just as Kazar's red glow flickered out, and he sighed in relief.

"Oh, hello." She said, pausing and tilting her head down at him curiously. "What were you doing just now?"

"Nothing," he croaked, because he couldn't think of any way to say 'glowing with demonic magic' that would go over well.

"Oh. I see." She came closer, and Kazar bit back the urge to blast her for insolence. She was a waif of a woman... it would probably snap her in half.

"Do you mind?" he asked through gritted teeth. "I don't really want to chat."

"I don't mind," she said, still peering at him curiously. Shit, was he showing something after all? "Are you all right? You look a little stressed."

"Go _away_, you nosy twit."

She blinked, finally taking the hint. "Oh. All right then." She actually had the gall to look _hurt_. By the Fade he was going to _burn _her _face off_ if she didn't leave _this minute_.

She turned and started away, and he released a shaky sigh, only for his breath to hitch as she paused. "Just so you know... you're coming off as awfully ornery just now. Probably should mind that." Then, while Kazar was biting back a scream, she continued on down the path to camp.

Kazar's world went red, and the demonic power pulsed through him. He needed to destroy something... _anything_... to make a mark on this infantile, unworthy world.

With a hiss, he sprang to his feet and tore up the mountainside, slinging a thunderbolt at the first bird that took flight as he passed. A rodent moving in the bushes suddenly found its hiding spot ablaze.

It wasn't enough. He needed more.

He paused at a crest in the path: one that brought him in view of the huge, walled city that crouched in the valley below, just teeming with idiots and sycophants and _Templars_. He could burn them all... those stone walls would make an excellent furnace.

Lightning darted up and down his arms, sending an electric thrill through him with each pass. He could feel his connection to the Fade opened wide, pumping demonic magic through him. He flexed his fingers, wondering what would happen if he unleashed it all at the city.

One thought kept him from doing it... one single sliver of sanity, breaking through the haze... if he acted against any actual people, Meila would be forced to take up her bow and hunt him down.

It had been a promise he'd extracted from her on the boat across the Waking Sea. They'd been crammed in the stuffy bottom of a boat for almost a week, both feeling cramped and twitchy, and Kazar's little problem had started acting up particularly badly. In the dark of the night, feeling bleak and defeated, he'd made her promise him—just as he'd done with Alistair months before—that, if he lost control, she would kill him.

Meila was a practical elf. She hadn't even hesitated before agreeing. And she was a deadly huntress... if he ever became her quarry, the hunt wouldn't stop until one of them died.

He didn't want to kill Meila, and that stayed his hand from doing anything _too_ garish. He still needed an outlet, though.

He turned and headed farther up the mountain, encountering a smattering of wildlife that he took very little enjoyment in destroying. _Too small. Too helpless. Unworthy._

Then, he came upon a cave entrance and lurked in the doorway to peek inside. The immediate interior was lit by the glow coming off him, and even that was enough to see the large, eight-legged forms slowly moving around the walls and ceiling. There was webbing everywhere, and he summoned a gout of flame to burn through a larger web right next to the door... to much chittering and clacking from deeper in the cave.

Something moved to his left, and a spider the size of a mabari crept into the light of the fire, with the sounds of dozens more approaching from the darkness behind it.

Kazar grinned and unslung his staff from his back.

_That will do_.


	3. Dalish are Pretentious and Mysticismy

**3. Dalish Elves are Pretentious and Mysticismy **

Kazar had never slept well. It had been bad enough being a mage since he was four, learning to fight off whispers in the Fade before learning to read. He'd then become a Grey Warden during the middle of a Blight, which meant he was treated to a nightly serenade of darkspawn song.

But it had been better, lately. His Fade dreams had been undisturbed since Mouse had gone, as if the collective demons of the Fade were afraid to tangle with him now (or perhaps they couldn't tell he was no longer an abomination, but that wasn't a possibility he wanted to entertain). Then, since the archdemon's death, the darkspawn voices had become less like a song and more like a few distant, vague scratches, disorganized and not above a whisper. As easy to ignore as the demons he'd been fighting all his life.

Thus, he was more than a little taken aback to find himself waking restlessly multiple times through the night, each time jolting out of sleep in a cold sweat and with no memory of what had woken him. Once, he even woke the other two elves whose _aravel _he was sharing by reflexively casting a lightning bolt on waking. It didn't hit either of them, but Pol was jolted awake for the rest of the night, and Terath (the elf who had been with Ineria and Fenarel to greet them) gave him a glare that would have given Knight-Commander Greagoir a run for his money.

And that was saying something, considering Knight-Commander Greagoir was the one who had declared him an abomination back during the Battle of Denerim, and would have carted him off to Aeonar had it not been for the unexpected intervention of a certain bard and a surprisingly-on-his-side ex-Templar-Warden-king.

Suffice to say that Kazar wasn't getting any sleep. By the time the sky peeking through gaps in the ceiling began turning lighter with approaching dawn, Kazar sighed and rolled out of his bedroll. Pol (who was still staring at him like he was rabid) watched him as he grabbed up his staff, slipped on his shoes, and ducked out into the camp.

Some of the clan were up already, because Dalish were apparently _insane_, and Kazar was careful to skirt all pockets of pre-dawn activity to head to the edge of camp.

He paused as he saw the small herd of white creatures grazing in a clearing just outside the circle of _aravels_. The combination of nearby firelight from the camp's bonfire and the predawn sky lent the halla an ethereal quality, giving the white deer a graceful glow.

He peered at the nearest one with reluctant curiosity, only to have its head jerk up toward him. After a moment's consideration, it ducked its head and shied away. Kazar found himself staring in bafflement as the rest of the herd all seemed to take a few shuffling steps farther from him.

"Are you serious?" he asked the nearest halla incredulously. "_You're _judging me too?"

"They can tell you're not one of us," said a red-headed woman who came up behind him, toting a bucket. She set it down as she drew up even with him. Her voice was naturally quiet, a whisper on the morning air. "It is difficult for an outsider to earn their trust."

Kazar crossed his arms petulantly. He'd just been rejected by a _deer._ "Kinda like Dalish then."

The woman seemed startled, but a small smile twitched her lips, just for a moment. Kazar instantly and immediately felt better.

"So who are you?"

"My name is Maren. I look after the halla."

Kazar turned his attention back to the animals, looking for signs of tack, or whatever beasts of burden tended to have. There were none; these things looked wild, if unnaturally close to camp. "Like a stable keeper or something?"

"Never." She took up her bucket again, and, as Kazar watched, she sowed its contents—some kind of leaves—around the field among the halla. The animals turned and began grazing at whatever she was spreading. "Halla and the Dalish have a partnership. They guide us in our travels and pull our _aravels_, and we look after them and make sure Ghilan'nain is honored."

"Ghilan... what?"

"Ghilan'nain, the first of their kind." She glanced up at him. "Sorry, I forget how little you non-Dalish know. She's one of the Creators, once the most beloved of Andruil-"

"That's all I need," Kazar said, before she could launch into whatever great, convoluted backstory the halla goddess had. "I don't need the whole story."

"Oh." And, for a moment, she looked at him _sadly_. It was practically _pity_. Kazar fought down a spike of reflexive Pride. He'd decimated a nest of spiders just last night; he did not need to become... _that_... again so soon.

So, with a huff, he left and headed back to camp. He wondered how long it would take for himself to get a reputation for storming off. Bah, whatever.

Back in camp, more people were up, including a particular red-headed Warden who was currently talking to the craftsman. Kazar needed a friendly face, and beelined for her.

"...a great deal of wear," the older man was saying, handling Meila's bow. "Are you certain you would not simply prefer a new one?"

"It is as you said when you gave it to me, Master Ilen. I am providing it a history."

The old man smiled warmly. "Ah, yes. I'd nearly forgotten." He set the bow gently on his crafting table and bent down to inspect it. "I must say that I'm glad it means so much to you."

"Who knows why," Kazar said, standing beside Meila. "It's a stick with a string tying its ends together."

Master Ilen cast him a curious glance, but Meila tilted her chin up and deadpanned, "That is one more element than your weapon of choice, _da'lethallin._." A beat. "If you wish, perhaps Master Ilen will be persuaded to provide you with one as well."

Kazar couldn't help but crack a laugh. Meila, joking? She was certainly in a good mood. "Are you kidding? This staff was once part of a _sylvan_. Who _rhymed._ No one can top that. No offense, old man."

"None taken," the craftsman said, straightening to give them his full attention. He was neatly put together, with his graying hair pulled back into a braid. His face was as stoic as Meila's usually was... but Kazar had learned to read Meila well enough to detect the spark of amusement in the older man's eyes. "It is nice to meet you, Mr. Surana. How are you settling in?"

Huh. Direct and polite. Kazar decided he didn't mind this guy. "Fine. I mean, both my bunkmates hate me, but I got used to that back at the Circle. So, you know, status quo."

"Ah, yes. I'm afraid Pol still struggles with certain aspects of our philosophy." Ilen bent over Meila's bow to inspect it. "You will find that the rest of us know that the strength required to resist what your kind do is something to be respected, not feared."

Ok, yeah. He liked this guy. But still... "There are some things that probably should be."

Master Ilen paused. "Are you saying that we have reason to fear you, young one?"

Kazar stiffened. "No. Not from me." Meila's hand gently took his wrist and squeezed it comfortingly, because she alone knew what it meant for him to say that.

"Good." The craftsman turned back to the bow.

"_Da'lethallin, _this is Master Ilen," Meila said. "He's a very talented craftsman."

"Don't flatter, _da'len_," the elder said goodnaturedly. "It doesn't suit you."

She smiled. "Really, if you need anything made or repaired, you have but to ask. The clan's resources are yours."

"Very true," Ilen agreed.

Kazar shook his head. "What would I ever need? You're not touching my staff."

"That is understandable," the craftsman said. "But if you need anything else—clothes, tools, jewelry—simply tell me, and I'll see what I can do."

Meila nodded. "It was Master Ilen who taught me how to carve." She touched a string of beads in her hair.

Kazar snorted. "I don't need any jewelry. I'm kind of... you know... a _guy_."

"It is not a matter of male or female, _da'lethallin_," she chided gently. "Many of our kind wish to express themselves and their ties to the history of the _elvhen_ through such tokens."

Kazar shook his head, though a bit more gently. "I've already got the only token of expression I need." He tapped the Warden's Oath amulet, still hanging around his neck after all these months. "It's symbolic enough for anyone, I think."

"Ah." She smiled. "Perhaps you have a point."

"Perhaps, nothing."

Master Ilen cleared his throat gently, standing upright. "As good as it has been to meet you, young man... it appears you are being summoned." He nodded his head toward something behind Kazar.

The mage looked around to find that the sun had risen while they were talking, bathing the camp in warm gold. In the morning light, the hunters were gathering together, while others began setting up cooking stations at the fire. Kazar scanned past all that—he was beginning to acclimatize to all the community activity—and spotted the Keeper, standing outside her _aravel_ watching Kazar. When she saw his gaze on her, she smiled and beckoned smoothly with one hand.

Kazar sighed. "It's like being back in school."

"I believe Wynne would say," Meila said, "that one's journey of learning should never end."

"Yeah, well, she was a _teacher_. She would say that." He shook his head, hoping that Marethari's lessons would at least be a little more tolerable than the enchanters' had been at the Circle. Otherwise he was going to be frying more spiders. "Well, wish me luck."

"You don't need it, _da'lethallin_."

"You're no help. You, Ilen. Wish me luck."

Yeah, the craftsman was _definitely_ amused, though doing a laudable job trying to hide it. "Good luck, _da'len_."

"See, Meila? Was that so hard?"

Her answer was to put a hand on his back and shove him a step toward Marethari. Laughing, Kazar went.

Once she saw he was coming, Marethari turned and headed out of the camp, toward the halla herd. Kazar followed, silently hoping she wouldn't make him head back to the Maren woman and listen to the story of Ghilan-whatever after all.

Then, Kazar rounded a curve in the mountainside behind her and stopped cold. Straightening up from picking a bundle of herbs was the girl from on the mountain. She flashed him a bright, chirpy smile, and Kazar wondered whether this day wouldn't end in murder after all.

"Hello again," the younger of the women said cheerfully, even as the Keeper stopped beside her. "You look much better. Yesterday, you were a little cranky. I thought that maybe you had a thorn stuck in your foot, but then I realized that you were wearing shoes, so that couldn't have been it. So, are you feeling better?"

Kazar just blinked at the tumble of words. By the Fade, it was like Felicity Amell, except _more obnoxious_. He hadn't known that was _possible. _"What _are_ you?"

"This is Merrill," Marethari broke in with her slow cadence. "She is my First, what you would call my apprentice. Merrill, this is Kazar. He will be training with us. I take it you two have already met?"

Merrill nodded. "We ran into one another up on Sundermount." She gave him a smile that was so excited and earnest that he was instantly suspicious. "It's nice to meet you properly, Kazar."

"_Da'len_," Marethari said in a low voice, turning to Merrill, "what were you doing up on Sundermount?"

Merrill twitched. "Oh, nothing much. Just... you know... enjoying the view. Getting a moment of privacy to... not... um..." She trailed off, looking at Marethari like a guilty puppy, who returned the gaze with steady patience. Merrill took a breath, and then said quickly. "Okay, yes, I was looking at it again."

"Oh, _da'len_," Marethari sighed.

"I don't know why you look at me like that! It's a piece of our history... _literally_ a piece of it! Why should we not want to purify it?"

"It is _dangerous_, _da'len_."

"It's just a shard." Merrill stamped her foot stubbornly. "And understanding it could lead to more answers about our past."

Kazar cleared his throat. "Should I just... go?"

"No, Kazar," the Keeper sighed. "That will not be necessary." To Merrill, she said, "We will discuss this later, Merrill."

The younger woman crossed her arms and pouted. "And in the meantime, you're going to give me the frowny face again. This is why I didn't want to tell you."

Kazar refrained from fidgeting, and Marethari turned away. She started away from the camp, and Kazar followed behind, with Merrill taking up a plodding rear.

They ducked into the treeline, and spent a while of silence just wandering along the slope of the mountain. Kazar bit his tongue around an impatient question about whether nature walks were part of his training, but he held it back. The Keeper was doing him a huge favor.

Kazar had spent most of his life living cloistered in a tower with flat, meticulously clean floors. With that in mind, he liked to think he navigated the forest pretty well.

Which is why the three trips and one full-faced tumble he had during the short trek were entirely justified, and Merrill had no right to stifle a giggle behind her fist.

Finally, Marethari stopped them in a glade. "Here," the Keeper sighed. She stood in the middle of the clearing and turned back to the two younger mages. "Tell me, Kazar. What do you see?"

"Um..." He looked around the clearing. There was a slight slope to the ground... scraggly mountain trees, rocks... He snuck a glance at Merrill, in case there was something he was missing here. She was stifling a giggle. Again. His Pride spiked, but he looked away and bit it back. "Rocks?"

"Indeed there are," Marethari said. "What else?"

"Trees?" She continued looking at him expectantly. "Rocks and trees. Trees and rocks. That's what I see."

She hummed thoughtfully. "And Merrill?"

"The mountains," the First said immediately. She smiled brightly at Kazar, then waved a hand outward. Belatedly, Kazar realized that he could see the mountain range between the breaks in the trees around the clearing. It stretched forever. "We are part of it. See, the rocks at our feet are part of the same range as the mountains in the distance. It's all one."

He stared at her, then turned to look incredulously at Marethari, wondering if she was going to call her apprentice on that pretentious crap. The Keeper was smiling at Kazar.

"You can't be serious."

"There is an old idiom, I believe," Marethari said gently, "even present among the _shemlen_, about being unable to see the forest through the trees?"

"Oh, I've heard that one," Merrill chirruped.

Kazar's hackles went up. "And how does this teach me how to control my magic, exactly?"

"It is about embracing the larger picture, child, as well as one's place in it." She moved to stand next to a thin twisted sapling that sprang from the ground in the middle of the clearing. "Hand me your staff."

Still confused and a fighting the urge to throw his hands in the air and say 'fuck it' to this whole thing, he unslung his staff from his back and gave it to the Keeper. She planted the end of it in the ground, twisting and digging it in until it stood beside the sapling.

"What are these?" the Keeper asked.

"They're a stick and a tree?"

"Again, you focus on insignificant details. Open your mind." She looked at him and waited for him to respond. It was like being back with his teachers at the Circle, all right. Except with more dirt.

She wouldn't stop _looking_ at him like that until he got it, so he sighed and tried to grasp after what she was going for. He stared at the pair: one sylvanwood staff and one tree. He had no idea what kind of tree, if that's what she was looking for. It was a tree. A small one... about as tall as the staff.

He squinted and took a step back, and then it clicked. If you squinted and tilted your head, they both looked the same. If he was an overly mystical elder trying to drive a metaphor in...? "They're both trees?"

"Yes." She placed a hand on each tree... erm... the tree and the stick. "Magekind are like these trees. We stand tall, defiant, daring the demons of wind and weather to fell us." She moved away, coming to stand beside Kazar and Merrill. Then, as Kazar watched, she magically raised a scattering of stones off the ground in front of them and hurled them at the sticks.

The staff immediately went toppling away, to Kazar's irritated, "Hey! Be careful!" The actual tree, of course, was fine, and just had a few extra dents in its bark.

Kazar crossed his arms and looked irritably at the Keeper, even as Merrill moved to retrieve the fallen staff.

"What was the difference between them, child?"

"Uh, one wasn't a real tree?"

"But what did it lack that the tree has?"

Merrill handed him his staff back, and he glared at both of them, feeling his Pride start prickling again.

Marethari _looked_ at him again, seeing far deeper than he would have wanted anyone to see. Then, she turned and waved a hand over the ground in front of them. "Here is the difference, _da'len_." The earth under them shifted, and a series of roots slowly pulled out of the ground... first one thin tendril, then another. Soon the entire radius around the scraggly little sapling was full of twisted, woody curls.

"Roots?" he said, irritation slipping away as more and more curls slipped out of the ground.

"Roots," she repeated, and the ground settled.

Kazar walked slowly around the tree. The ring of curled wooden tendrils was eerily beautiful. It was like a mat of briars, but without the thorns, and with that tree still standing proud and tall in the middle.

"Like a tree," Marethari said, "a mage must learn to extend beyond oneself. To become a part of his environment, and in doing so take part of his environment into himself. He must be steadfast and strong, but also open and aware of the universe as it is, has been, and will be."

Kazar looked up from the roots, but couldn't muster much cynicism after that display. "Are we still talking about the tree?"

"It is a metaphor, child," the Keeper said, with just a hint of playfulness. "Think upon it, then tell me."


	4. Watch your Step on the Slopes

**4. Watch your Step on the Slopes**

Five days into their stay at the Dalish camp, Kazar managed to wheedle his way into a hunting party with Meila. They'd apparently had a pretty good couple days of hunting, so they let him tag along, despite how he bogged them down.

And he did bog them down—no risks of his little Pride problem popping up about that. Meila and the other two hunters danced through the trees, while he had to pick his way over roots and around brush. That was, when he wasn't skidding down an unexpected slope.

At least the other Dalish didn't seem to mind. Ineria even commented how he was at least 'better than Pol was at first.' That actually helped a bit.

Whatever. He could handle it, if it meant he could spend some time with someone who actually _knew_ him.

Even if she did suffer from some compulsion to turn it into a lesson on their shared heritage.

"...and so Dirthamen entrusted each kind of living creature with a secret," she said, idly picking low-hanging green fruits off trees while Kazar scrambled to keep up. Technically, they were tracking a bear, so today's lecture was about why bears were sacred to the God of Secrets. "But all the animals betrayed him, save one. While the birds sold their secret for gold, and the foxes theirs for wings, and the hares shouted theirs throughout the woodlands, the bears remained silent, and kept their secret in their dens where none could stumble upon it."

"Wait, go back. Foxes had wings?" Kazar clambered over a trunk that the others easily vaulted, because it was either find something interesting in this or bash his head repeatedly against a tree.

"They did," Fenarel said derisively from the front of the group, staring down at the tracks they were following. "Until Dirthamen took them away for squandering his gift."

Kazar couldn't hold back a snort of laughter. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."

"It can't be any worse than the _shemlen _tales," Ineria said. She walked about even with Meila, but kept glancing back at him with thinly veiled amusement. "Don't they lock up their Keepers so no one learns anything from them at all?"

"Oh, trust me, Circle 'Keepers' are really good at learning and teaching, but only among themselves. No one else listens to a word a mage says."

"And that is a failing of theirs, not ours," Fenarel said sharply. "I do not see why you cling to their ways, flat-ear."

"There is some good in it," Meila said thoughtfully. They turned up a game trail that doubled back toward the camp. At least... Kazar thought it did. He was actually pretty lost. "Many of their philosophies are surprisingly compassionate."

Fenarel stopped to turn and stare at Meila, and the rest stopped with him. Kazar welcomed the break. "You cannot be serious, _lethallan. _These are the same philosophies that bid them march on the Dales!"

"We cannot blame the current generation for what their ancestors did, Fenarel." At his increasingly incredulous expression, her chin tilted up stubbornly. "I am not saying that we should give up the old ways, only that there are things to be learned from the humans."

Fenarel just stared between the two Wardens with his mouth gaping. Ineria made a snorting, hissing sound that Kazar realized was a suppressed laugh.

"Character development," Kazar said dryly. "On huge sweeping world-saving adventures? It just kinda happens."

Fenarel _stared_, and Ineria cracked a laugh. "Oh Creators... your _face,_ _lethallin_!"

Meila blithely stepped ahead and took up the bear's trail. "Even so, _da'lethallin_, it so happens that Dirthamen did take the foxes' wings, and the hares' voices, and the birds' gold."

"He can just do that?"

"He's a Creator," Fenarel said in a near sulk. "He can do whatever he pleases." The four of them resumed their woodland trek.

"But if the animals all told their secrets, what secrets did they _tell_?"

"It is best not to guess too much," Ineria said. "It's a great disservice to Dirthamen to guess his secrets when he can no longer intervene to deny them."

"Ah, right. The whole 'Dread Wolf locking all the gods in their own realm' thing."

"That is correct, _da'lethallin._" Meila practically _beamed _at him. "Fen'Harel made it so that neither the Creators nor the Forgotten Ones could act upon the world."

Kazar turned a smirk back at the other male of the group. "Does that mean you're named after the trickster god?"

Fenarel met his look with an even glare of his own. Kazar had been dealing with Meila for months; he was perfectly capable of meeting it.

What he failed to consider was that doing so twisted his head back at an awkward angle, and, not paying attention to his path, he promptly stepped on a strangely angled rock and slipped. He toppled sideways and rolled down the hill for a second before a friendly tree stopped his momentum.

Ineria made that snorting-hissing sound again.

"Ow."

"_Da'lethallin_, are you all right?" Meila helped untangle him from his unflattering heap while Fenarel retrieved his staff and brought it over to him.

"You know what I think your problem is?" Ineria said with some amusement. "Your feet. You keep them wrapped up in cloth like that and you're bound to slip."

"What, you mean my _shoes_?" Kazar stood and took his staff back with little fanfare. He glanced down to note that all his companions, including Meila, were barefoot, just like the rest of the Dalish. Bare feet was apparently a thing here. "I like my shoes. They keep me from cutting my feet open and bleeding to death."

"They also mean you cannot feel where you're going," Ineria said with a shrug. "I couldn't do it."

Fenarel started back on the trail, and the rest of them fell behind.

"What do you mean, 'feel where you're going'? Is that some sort of Dalish mystical crap?"

"No, it's fact," Ineria said with a smirk. "_Elvhen _feet are sensitive. It helps us learn a lot about our environment... and helps us move quietly as well." She nodded back at the place where he'd fallen. "I suspect if you'd been barefoot, you wouldn't have slipped back there."

Kazar snorted incredulously. Yeah, like he was going to walk barefoot through the fricking _forest. _There were pinecones and thistles and all sorts of awful things on the ground that he had _no _intention of _ever _putting bare skin to, thank-you-very-much.

They resumed their tracking in silence. They broke out into a clearing, and Fenarel saw something that made him frown and crouch down to inspect the ground.

"What is it, _lethallin_?" Meila asked, moving to crouch beside him. "Ah."

"Blood," Fenarel said. He swiped a finger through the dirt, which Kazar guessed might have been stained with something dark, maybe. "About a day old. She was injured."

"She?" Kazar asked. "You mean the _bear_?"

"I don't see signs of a struggle," Ineria said, looking around them. "What would have attacked her?"

"Of more concern," Meila said, "is that something attacked the bear so close to camp." The other two nodded, and Meila explained before Kazar could ask. "None of our hunters would have provoked a bear without great need, and anything that would attack a bear would likely see little problem in attacking an elven child."

"I've been noticing a limp in the bear's gait for a while," Fenarel confessed, and Kazar goggled. You could tell that from footprints? "I hadn't thought it was this serious, though."

"Let us keep moving," Meila said, and the party resumed their task, now more somber.

Kazar didn't really relish the thought of tangling with a bear, injured or not. Still, at least he had a trio of Dalish with him. This was what they did... right?

They broke out onto a rocky outcropping with a sheer wall of mountain on one side, and Kazar bit back a yelp of surprise. They'd found the bear, a bulky black shape slumped across the path. Only as the other elves stepped forward did Kazar realize that the bear wasn't moving. It was dead.

The three hunters fearlessly moved in to inspect the dead animal, even while Kazar lingered back.

Meila knelt beside a bloody patch in its side, her frown deepening. "Look at this. I've never seen... what could have made this?"

The other two peered over her shoulder at the wound. "It's definitely a bite..." Fenarel said hesitantly. "But I don't recognize the tooth marks."

"The majority of the tearing is in the deepest part," Meila said. "The largest teeth were in the front... I'm not even seeing any from the back of the jaw. It looks more like mandibles than a proper mouth."

Ineria's eyes scanned the bear's flank. "Too large to be a spider though, isn't it? I didn't think they could get that big."

Fenarel shook his head. "No spider. There's no hint of poison."

"And the bite is too high," Meila said. At the questioning look of the other two, she tapped the top of the wound, near its spine. "Look at the angle. Whatever bit it, it was _taller_ than the bear."

That unsettled all of them, because the bear wasn't exactly small. Kazar, meanwhile, was dumbfounded that the hunters could glean so much from an animal corpse.

Fenarel stood up straight. "We have to find this creature. It's obviously dangerous."

"No," Meila said. "We should tell the Keeper. She may know what we are facing."

"And let the trail go cold?" Fenarel stared at Meila incredulously. "_Lethallan_, that is not like you at all."

Meila met his gaze with a hard one of her own. "The last time I followed a lead without consulting the Keeper first, Tamlen died." Fenarel twitched as if struck. "We're heading back to camp."

All three of them stepped away from the bear and started away. Then, a hoarse, mewling cry from behind them made all four elves pause.

"What was that?" Kazar asked, shaken by all this talk of bear-killing _things_.

The other three elves didn't look too worried, though. There was a silent exchange of glances. Then, Meila stepped forward, this time passing the bear and heading along the outcropping.

"_Lethallan_, don't-" Ineria said, and was ignored.

Meila disappeared around a curve in the mountainside, and the three elves stood in frozen silence for a moment. Then, there was a scuffling, scratching sound from where she'd disappeared, and all three surged forward to her aid.

Kazar was last to round the corner, and he had to stop himself from running into Fenarel. As it turned out, there was a shallow cave in the mountainside. And standing in the mouth of said cave was Meila, holding a baby bear.

"So she was heading back to her cub," Fenarel breathed.

Kazar watched the cub wiggle in Meila's arms, a fat, round ball of black fur with ponderous limbs. Its snout, full of needle-like teeth, bit once at Meila's restricting arms, but the elf didn't even flinch. When that didn't work, it gave another wiggle and let out another low cry.

Meila, for her part, seemed fascinated. She watched the creature in her arms like one would an adorable puppy. She managed to shift the moving form around enough to briefly delve into her pack, pulling out one of the fruits she'd picked earlier. The cub latched onto it and devoured the fruit greedily.

"You can't keep it," Kazar said. It should have been obvious, but this was the woman who had let a wild wolf follow them around for several months. "It's a _bear_."

"It has nowhere else to go, _da'lethallin_."

"The flat-ear has a point, though," Fenarel said hesitantly. "We can't very well bring it back to camp. You'd better put it down."

Meila looked up, and she had that set to her jaw that said she was about to get _stubborn_ (and with her, that was saying something). "Its mother is dead. If we leave it here alone, it will die."

"That's the way things are," Ineria said, not unkindly. "It's the natural way of things. We have no right to interfere."

Meila tilted her chin in the way that let anyone who knew her (all three of them) know that this fight was not over. Even so, she gently set the bear cub down. It rolled over once and then scurried away.

"Come on," Fenarel said. "We'd better return to the Keeper." He turned and started back toward camp, and Ineria fell in step lightly behind. Kazar lingered a minute, watching Meila pick her way over. Her face was very still, revealing nothing.

She drew even with him, and Kazar nudged her playfully with his staff. "Just don't give it a name like 'Fang', eh?"

A glint of mischief twinkled in her eyes.


	5. Find a Sanctuary

**5. Find a Sanctuary **

He couldn't believe he was doing this.

He glanced behind him, just to make sure he hadn't been followed. Yeah right. If any Dalish _were_ lurking in trees, they'd be perfectly capable of hiding from _him_.

Still, seeing no one around made him feel less embarrassed about it. He sighed with relief and turned back around, taking a moment to take in the swiftly-becoming-familiar sight of the circle of roots Marethari had created on that first day. It had been two weeks, and Kazar had found himself sneaking off to this place since then. It was... peaceful. Meditative, even.

Not that he meditated here or anything, though he knew Marethari was hoping he did. Usually, he napped.

Not today, though. Today was special, and he needed a little something more. Carefully, he leaned on his staff and put the toe of one foot to the heel of the other, twisting his feet until first one shoe, then the other, was levered off. Stockings came off with a tug of one hand.

Carefully, he set his bare feet in the grass, and sucked in a breath. It was... cold! There was a damp chill on the ground, and it was strange to feel the flat press of a few blades of grass caught under his soles. He dug his toes into the dirt, marveling at the give of the soil.

There was a simple pleasure in it. He'd never stood barefoot outside as far as he could remember, though it did tap that very old familiar place buried inside him.

Not that he'd admit this to Ineria, or anything. There was a reason he was trying this well away from camp.

Carefully, Kazar picked his way through the grass, keeping a close eye on the ground so he didn't step on anything painful or... unsanitary. Watching didn't work entirely; a few times, he winced as his sensitive soles pressed against a pebble or twig with a sharp edge.

Then, he reached the edge of the circle of roots, and licked his lips. With even more care, he placed a foot on top of one root on the very outside, and the rough tendril gave under his weight. He put his weight on it, and picked another set of roots to use as his next stepping-stone. The roots were surprisingly soft, bending under his feet, even if a few pinched. By carefully picking his path, he soon reached the center of the circle.

He grinned triumphantly, feeling a spike of Pride that he didn't bother to suppress. Then, he sat down at the base of the sapling and took up his usual position of staring out over the mountains. This time, while he did it, he dug his toes into the ground, marveling at the feel of cool, rich soil between them.

Time didn't pass the same way among the Dalish as it did among civilization, where the passing of the hours was marked by the tolling of the Chantry bells. Here, the only set marker was the rising and setting of the sun, with only its slow, steady journey across the sky to fill the hours between.

And so, Kazar couldn't say how long he stayed like that, barefoot and shirking responsibility against a sapling. It felt pretty damn good not to have any expectations thrust upon him. No classes to attend. No enchanters to impress. No Blight.

That one was a big one, there being no Blight.

For quite some time, he marveled in the feeling of freedom the thought brought, right up until he looked up to see Meila standing outside the root circle, watching him with muted amusement.

Bah, right. Life was still happening. "You here to drag me back to camp?"

She shrugged and stepped carefully through the perimeter to his side. "People had wondered where you had gone. The Keeper thought you might be here."

He shrugged in response and looked out over the mountain, and she gracefully sat beside him.

Again, time passed, with nothing to mark it except the slow movement of the sun.

"Do the Dalish do birthdays?"

"Birthdays, _da'lethallin_?"

"Yeah. You know, commemorate the anniversary of your birth. Celebrate the fact that you're alive, mark the passage of time... that sort of thing?"

She leaned sideways against the tree thoughtfully, so that her shoulder brushed his. "Not in that way, I think. We mark the years, to take account of them, but that is not necessarily seen as purpose for celebration. Instead, we mark events. The first solo hunt. The first recitation of the Oath of the Dales. And, of course, the application of one's _vallaslin_."

Kazar raised a hand to his own tattoos.

"That is how we decide whether one is an adult or not," she went on. "Not by an arbitrary number of years, but by whether one is able to withstand the _vallaslin_ with the strength expected of a full-grown Dalish. When one is, it is celebrated for days, and one is finally an adult in the eyes of the clan."

Kazar nodded. "Ah. Okay."

They looked out over the mountains for a time. Then, "Why do you ask, _da'lethallin_?"

"Nothing. It's not important."

"You are in a most somber mood. I would know why."

Kazar shrugged noncommittally.

"Kazar."

She so rarely called him by name that he had to crack a smile and relent. "I'm seventeen today."

"Oh?" She seemed to think that over. "Would you like to celebrate this? If so, I am willing to help."

He shook his head. "It's fine. It's not even a real birthday, anyway. Just a date. Arbitrary, like you said."

Meila nudged him with her shoulder, and he sighed.

"I told you I was brought to the Circle when I was four, right? Of course I didn't have a birthday, and the Templars and enchanters didn't care enough to assign one. So I'd just watch the older mages as they passed gifts and favors back and forth on otherwise normal days. Little signs of appreciation for that person's existence, you know?

"Then, Jowan came along, and he declared that, if I didn't know my birthday, then it might as well be the day I was brought to the Circle." His face cracked into a sad smile at the memory… the preteen Jowan pronouncing with uncharacteristic resolve that Kazar would get a birthday too. "Every year, he brought me something. Never anything big... but still they were the most amazing things to me. One year it was this painted beeswax candle from Orlais. The next it was a little rock that had this beautiful crystal formation inside. Little tokens from outside that I'd never really had a chance to encounter myself, you know?" He leaned back. "I never thought to ask him how he got his hands on all that stuff... the idiot was full of surprises like that." Grief twisted his heart briefly, followed swiftly by guilt, and Kazar beat both down.

They were silent for a time. "So today is the thirteenth year after you were taken from your home and brought to the Circle?"

"I never thought of it like that." Kazar tugged at a root. "I didn't remember anything from before the Tower, so I figured I might as well have _always _been there. I couldn't really grasp the idea that there was more to life than those rounded walls. Not for me."

"But there is, _da'lethallin_. At least, I hope you have found it so."

"Yeah..." He felt a burning in his eyes, and resolutely blinked it back. "I've never had a... a home. The Circle Tower was never home: it was a cage. And then there were the Wardens, and we were always on the road or waiting for the next chain of events to kick off. And that was fine. I didn't think I needed a home. The way I saw it, _b__elonging _was for fragile sheep who needed a flock to survive."

"That is not so."

"Well yeah, I know that _now_."

Her hand reached over to grasp his. "I would hope, _da'lethallin_, that you will one day feel comfortable enough among your own people to call this a home."

"They're not my people."

"They could be."

He fell silent, and they watched the sun track across the sky in silence.


	6. Sleep is for the Weak

_(Author's Note: Reviewers, every single one of you is awesome, especially those of you I recognize from ARLD's original run. ^.^  
_

_This is a head's up that I will be out of town without access to my computer for two weeks, so updates will resume in March!)_

**6. Sleep is for the Weak **

He jerked upright in the bedroll. Again. His heart raced, and his skin was clammy. A lightning bolt fizzled in his hand, ready to be cast, but he cut off his magic before he could release it at his _aravel_ partners.

Kazar bowed over his knees, gasping for breath while the residual fear faded. He grasped after the memory of what he'd been dreaming, but it faded quickly. Again.

For nearly a month now, he'd done this every night. Every. Single. Night. Dammit, he needed a decent night's sleep!

He growled in frustration and shoved out of his bedroll, then grabbed up his staff. He didn't bother with his shoes, letting the cold shock of his bare feet on the earth shake away the last of the phantoms.

When he ducked outside, the cool mountain air greeted him. The fire was banked low for now, but never out, and he headed toward it. Some nights, he'd stare into it until he felt tired again, and he had every intention of doing that now. He crouched in front of it, gave the fire a little puff of magic to expand it, and resigned himself to staring for an hour or so.

"Restless again, _da'len_?" a gravelly voice said. He glanced up to see _hahren _Paivel, the clan's resident loremaster and collective stern grandfather. Paivel's white hair shone in the flickering light as he sat down across the fire from Kazar.

"I'm fine," he said reflexively. At least he was pretty much used to being called "child" or "_da'len_" by the various elders, so he didn't have to shove back his prickling Pride. Much.

"Telling a lie often only makes it less true."

Kazar stifled a roll of the eyes. A font of homebrewed wisdom, was Paivel. "Maybe 'I'm fine' was just more polite than 'none of your business'."

"But that is where you are mistaken, _da'len_. When one of our people suffers, it is all of us who must share the pain."

"I'm not one of you."

Paivel regarded him calmly, taking the sass with a disapproving frown and nothing more. Then, he said, "The Keeper and her First had difficulty sleeping here the first weeks, as well."

That snuffed Kazar's temper before it could really rouse. "What?"

Seeing that he'd caught Kazar's attention, Paivel nodded. "Perhaps, if your dreams bother you, you might consult the Keeper for her advice on how to treat it."

"Do you know why I can't sleep?" He cut himself off before he asked more, because that sounded desperate enough.

"I... cannot say for certain, _da'len_. However, I can posit a guess."

Kazar was _not _going to ask what. _He was not going to ask_.

Paivel answered him anyway. "Long ago, this mountain was the site of a great battle waged between the Tevinter Imperium and the last free elves of Elvhenan." Paivel leaned in toward the fire, his eyes going distant. "So the tales go: Arlathan, the ancient city of our ancestors, had fallen to the Imperium. The _shemlen_ were spreading across the land like a storm, capturing and enslaving every elf they overtook. The last forces of Elvhenan were chased south, until they crashed against the sea here. It was in these mountains that our ancestors made their final stand."

Kazar found himself leaning forward, rapt despite himself.

"They rallied what forces they could, drew all free elves from the edges of the terrible _shemlen _empire, from the remaining cities and herders' huts both."

"The ruins," Kazar realized. "Outside the camp. They're from that time, aren't they?"

"Yes. Sundermount was once a place of great importance to our people. Many of our kind lived and went to _Uthenera_ in these hills. That was why the _elvhen _made their stand here."

"They lost," Kazar whispered. Even he knew enough about elven history to guess that much.

"Not without a fight, _da'len_," the elder said fiercely. "Both sides mustered the greatest powers at their command. Great forces of nature roared on both sides, our ancient arcane lore against the demon-wrought ferocity of the Imperium. Alas, the Imperium, with demons and dragons at their call, overwhelmed our ancestors, and the ancient elves perished by the hundreds, when our kind had rarely known death before."

"That's not true, is it? That we were immortal?"

"Who can say?" Paivel peered at him over the flames. "The ancient tales indicate that, at the least, we did not know sickness or age until the _shemlen _came to our lands. Regardless, the fact is that many died here, on both sides of the battle. In their wake, they left echoes. Wandering spirits and monsters who were summoned to fight a war they cannot know is no longer waged. It is likely those spirits, _da'len_, which keep you awake at night."

Kazar cast his gaze out along the treeline, as if that would help him spot these demons in the darkness. "Why are we here, then? If there are so many restless forces here, wouldn't it be safer to move on?"

Paivel sighed. "It is only right, perhaps, that you are aware." The elder thought for a moment, seeming to choose his words. "We are here not by the will of the halla, as would usually be our custom. Rather, we came here to fulfill a promise. A promise made during those very times we were just speaking of, in fact, to a force known as _Asha'bellanar_."

He'd heard that word before... Where had... oh. _Oh._ "_Flemeth_?"

Paivel nodded. "That is, I believe, what she is called in certain lands."

"But that was... she's _that old_?" Kazar felt dizzy. He remembered facing her in the Wilds, during the Blight. He remembered the madness that had overtaken him, the sensation of power at becoming an abomination of Pride for the first time. And he remembered demanding she face him properly, and her letting him win.

It had enraged him at the time. Now, with clear eyes, he realized that she had spared him his life.

"It is what the tales passed down the generations say," Paivel said serenely. "Even the most outlandish tales spring from a seed of truth, _da'len_. Thus, we have been bidden wait, and so we wait."

Kazar found himself shivering, the overturned memories of Flemeth unsettling him more than the idea that demons were lurking around the camp. "What are we waiting for, exactly?"

"A message. Only the Keeper knows the nature of it, and that is perhaps for the better."

Kazar nodded, digging his bare toes into the soil. Well, it wasn't like he hadn't known Flemeth would come back to haunt the Wardens' collective hides _somehow._

"I apologize if this distresses you, _da'len_."

"It's fine." He sighed. "Let's just say I've met Flem... _Asha'bellanar_. We didn't part on the best terms."

"I see." His eyebrows rose. "I cannot say I'm surprised to hear that, _da'len_."

Kazar cast the old man a sour look.

"Even so, you need not worry. You are under our protection now. She will not harm one of the People."

"But... I'm not Dalish."

"Aren't you?" Paivel leaned forward and pinned him with that 'lecturing enchanter' look of his. "Tell me, then. What do you believe it means to be Dalish?"

"Part of a Dalish clan. Duh?"

"Not 'duh'. Certainly not." Paivel laced his fingers, and Kazar swore he saw a hint of amusement in the old man's eyes. Imagined, obviously. "I notice that you have been going barefoot increasingly often around camp. Do you know why?"

And what was with the change of subject? "Peer pressure, mostly," Kazar muttered.

"Can you guess why our people often discard our shoes, even on difficult or dangerous terrain?"

Kazar shrugged. "Ineria said it helps us feel the terrain and move quietly."

"That is true, but there is more to it than that. Something which many of the younger of the clan may not be aware of yet."

"This isn't the part where you say 'it helps us keep in touch with the earth' is it?"

Okay, that was _definitely _amusement. "No, _da'len_. That is not it either, though it is a laudable guess."

"So... what? Why do Dalish go barefoot?"

Paivel sat back, and Kazar could tell by the distant look in his eye that he was going into 'storyteller' mode again. Kazar found he didn't mind it so much, here in the intimate dark of the night. Something about the play of firelight and the gentle, lyrical gravel of the _hahren's_ voice made Kazar pay attention. Or maybe it was the fact that, unlike all the enchanters' lectures back at the Circle, this one was actually relevant to his life. Relatively.

"It began with Andraste's rebellion. Our people, who had been subjugated for a thousand years and forgot what it meant to be a people unto ourselves, heard tales of this strange barbarian queen who dared to defy the Imperium. Emboldened by these tales, slaves from across the empire rose up, led by a man named Shartan. He, more than any other, rallied the _elvhen _against their captors, gathering anything they could carry and everything they could use against the Imperium to free their kin.

"It is said they fought with little more than sharpened stones and bows made from broken barrels, but Shartan led them as if they bore arms of legend. He spoke fire into their veins and gave all of them—of us—a dream to someday again have a homeland to call our own, where we could be safe and free.

"And so he allied with Andraste and her barbarian forces, and they broke the stranglehold Tevinter had on Thedas. Many elves, including Shartan himself, lost their lives in the victory, but it did not matter. The seed of hope had already been sown, and the _elvhen _asked only one boon for their aid: a homeland.

"And so it was granted, by Maferath, husband and general to the late Andraste. He provided us with the Dales, a land far to the south of Tevinter, in the unknown wilderness far away from the lands we knew. And as a newly formed nation, fed by hope and the first breath of freedom in a thousand years, all elvenkind stood up and began the Long Walk home."

His voice had dropped to barely a whisper. Kazar found himself leaning forward to hear it.

"So the tale goes: when we left Tevinter, we had nothing. We walked with what we had on our backs. Some walked without shoes, for they had none. Women with infants, the old and infirm—all journeyed as one across the land on foot. And if one could no longer walk, we carried him.

"Many perished along the way. Some tired and died of exhaustion, while others gave up and were left behind. Bandits and wildlife preyed upon many. Some regretted or feared the long road ahead, and turned back to Tevinter. But most of us continued on. And so it was we found the Dales, and for a time, it was home."

Paivel's eyes focused again, turning to regard Kazar gravely. For his part, Kazar found his throat too dry to speak.

"After a few scant centuries of freedom, the Dales, too, fell, this time to an Exalted March from the _shemlen_ Chantry... a perversion of the promises made by their prophetess. Some of our kind fled to the human cities and submitted to the rule of the same Chantry that had driven us from our second homeland, just as the ancestors from Elvhenan had submitted to the empire that had destroyed our first. These elves live in squalor, in the shadows of the _shemlen _who tolerate them as little better than vermin.

"We, however, took a different path. We walked into the wilderness, and have never stopped walking since. We will not stop until we once again have a place we might call home, and we will keep our history and lore alive until such a time."

He closed his eyes, reciting the last bit with the gravity of an inerrant law. "We are the Dalish: keepers of the lost lore, walkers of the lonely path. We are the last _elvhen_. Never again shall we submit."

Paivel's voice fell silent, and it left a strange lack in the night air, only filled by the crackling of the fire.

Kazar remembered to breathe, and spoke at little above a whisper. "That's why you don't wear shoes, then. This? It's another Long Walk."

"A longer, harder walk than the first one, at times," Paivel said softly. "But, in the end, it will be worth it."

Kazar turned to stare down at his toes. Soil caked on his soles, and that suddenly seemed monumental.

He had grown up in the Circle Tower, in a structure so regimented it may as well have been a prison. He'd never once stepped outside it in twelve _years_. If anyone knew what it meant to be forced to submit, it was a Circle mage. "Never again," he whispered, wiggling his toes and feeling a spark of Pride that was more controlled than it usually was.

A hand fell on his shoulder, and he was surprised to see that Paivel had moved, and now stood over him wearing a soft smile. "See, _da'len_? You do know what it means to be Dalish."


	7. Seriously, Don't Fall off the Mountain

_(Thank you all for your kind words and patience! And now back to your regularly scheduled updates.)  
_

**7. Seriously, Don't Fall off the Mountain**

Kazar was having a difficult day. His roommates had kicked him out of the tent in the early hours of the morning (again), and there was a tear in his robes that he'd been forced to submit to Master Ilen for repair. As if asking the craftsman for a favor wasn't embarrassing enough, he only had the one set, so had been forced to borrow a shirt and trousers from the craftsman... which were itchy and uncomfortable in weird places. He _far_ preferred robes, but the only mages in camp were both women, and there was no way he was walking around in women's clothing.

As if that weren't bad enough, he burned himself at breakfast. Actually _burned himself_. He hadn't done that since he was _nine_, when he mastered the finer points of gauging a safe distance for throwing a fireball.

Meila had whipped up a salve, of course, and now everyone knew he was some bumbling idiot who _burned himself_. Ugh.

Kazar's Pride had been a prickling thing all morning, and he felt balanced on a knife's edge, one subtle tease from lighting up like a demonic firefly.

Marethari could tell, of course. She could always tell when he was having trouble staying calm and humble. She suggested he spend the day in meditation, and he was happy to take the excuse to leave the camp.

An immeasurable stretch of time later, he found himself wandering up Sundermount, dragging his staff idly and deep in a state of contented superiority. He'd lost his shoes at some point, and marveled at the symbolism inherent in that. _Dalish_. A strong, resilient people. A worthy designation.

He found an outcropping in the path that overlooked a broad arc of the mountain range around him, and Kazar planted his staff and settled down to look out. All this was once the domain of the Dalish. Perhaps it could be again.

He smiled, contented, for the moment, to indulge in the dream. In the back of his mind, a tiny voice scrabbled against his awareness, saying that he'd lost control, and that he should pull back before this got dangerous. It made him laugh. Danger? What danger, to embrace such greatness. No danger... _freedom_.

He dangled his feet over the edge of the outcropping, gazing down the long drop below him. Too far a fall to survive, perhaps, but he knew no fear. Pride had nothing to fear from glorying in the risks.

"Kazar? Are you... oh." He glanced over his shoulder to see Merrill standing on the path behind him. "Oh my. That's new."

He should be worried, right? It seemed ridiculous, but that little voice was scrabbling in panic. _She saw me. She knows! She knows!_ He quashed it, because it was silly. Why not let her see him in his true glory?

"Merrill," he said, delighting to hear the demonic dissonance in his voice. It had been so long since he'd used his true voice.

"Are you... um... feeling all right?" She hovered back, tugging on her scarf.

"Better than I have in months." He turned back to look out at the majestic view. "Come, First. Sit."

After a few moments' hesitation, she took a few steps toward him. She crouched down next to him, though seemed to be peering at him more than at the view. "Does the Keeper know that you... um... glow?"

"Of course she does." He glanced at her, and she visibly twitched back at his gaze. It made him smile. "She's trying to 'fix' me." He laughed, because the success of that endeavor spoke for itself.

"How are you broken, exactly?" She asked carefully.

"I'm not. I'm complete. Denying my true magnificence is what makes me broken."

"Well, it would be inconvenient, don't you think? Glowing all the time? You'd never be able to get to sleep at night, because the light is too bright. At least, I wouldn't. Maybe you should... you know, turn it off?"

He scoffed. "Your ideas are small." He turned to her, an idea taking hold. "Would you like to see greater horizons, Merrill? You could."

"No. I think I'm okay. I rather like the horizons I already see."

"You do not know what you turn down." He smiled and turned more fully toward her. "There is no greater sensation than being joined with a being beyond mortal bounds. It is _transcendent_. Would you not like to _transcend_?"

She scooted back a step, toward the edge of the overlook behind her. "No, thank you. I really think you should turn back, now."

He crawled—_prowled_—after her. "You wish to repair an artifact of Dalish history? I could help you. There is _power_ that you cannot comprehend in such a partnership."

She backed away a bit more, until she hit the edge of the outcropping, and glanced down at the drop behind her. "You should really stop now."

"Stop? I've barely _begun_." He moved forward another step, and she leaned back... and, with a yelp, slipped off the outcropping.

Alarm broke through his Prideful haze, and he snapped forward a burst of rock magic to try and catch her. At the same time, she summoned a tangle of vines, and they lifted her safely back to the landing. It was a near thing, though, and the shock of having nearly _killed her_ finally broke through his Pride.

He skittered away from her, back toward the path, and snapped his eyes shut. _I'm mortal. I'm weak. Jowan died for me. I nearly killed Merrill. _

"Kazar?" he heard her take a step toward her.

"Stay back!" he snapped, holding up a hand to halt her while the other rubbed at his forehead (as if that did anything). "Just... give me a minute!"

_I'm mortal. I'm just some dumb kid who was tricked by a demon. I'm weak. _

Bit by bit, the Pride faded away, the space left behind filled with self-loathing instead. By the Fade... had he _done_ that? Attempting to tempt _Merrill_? With _what_? He couldn't exactly possess her.

A cracked laugh left him, and he dropped his forehead to the dirt, letting the cool sensation ground him. Yep. Definitely feeling more mortal and stupid now.

"Are you all right?" she asked, still somehow sincere after he'd tried to do _that_. Seriously, what was this girl _made _of?

He cracked an eye open to peer at her from the ground. She still kept a reasonable distance, at least, but looked more concerned than anything else.

"Seriously?" he managed. "Nothing to say? I nearly killed you."

Merrill shrugged. "But then you tried to save me. You wouldn't really have hurt me, so I wasn't in any real danger."

Kazar huffed into the ground. "And the attempt at demonic temptation? No alarm over that at all?"

"The Keeper says that one should never trust the words uttered by spirits. They are always trying to trick you."

"Yeah. Wish I'd realized that a year ago." He pushed himself up into a sitting position, scowling as dew-softened mud caked his face and clothes. He brushed them off. "Don't tell the Keeper I tried to do that, please? She'll make me do the clan's laundry for a week."

"So what you said just now was true? She's trying to fix you?"

"...yeah." He peered up at her, but saw no judgment in those big green eyes, only curiosity. "As you can see, there's work to do."

"So you're an abomination, then? I wasn't aware... fixing... such things was really possible."

"It's not. I'm not. I mean..." He grit his teeth, because he was not going to start _babbling_. "I'm not... technically... an abomination anymore. The demon's gone. But it wasn't really a clean break."

"Oh."

"Just... 'oh'? I'm part demon, and the only thing you have to say about it is 'oh'?"

She shrugged. "You made a mistake. It happens all the time, especially with mages and spirits. That is why the Keeper says that you can never trust _anything_ in the Fade. It's all a lie, meant to draw you in. You didn't know that."

"But I did!" he spat. No risk of Pride here: his shame burned strong and hot. "All my life, the Circle told me not to trust demons, and I went and learned blood magic, and joined with a Pride Demon, and _broke my soul _for _power_. Because I was arrogant enough to think that I knew better than a thousand years of mage mistakes!" He slapped the ground, but it was an ineffectual display of force. He'd rather be throwing a fireball, but the only target for his current ire was himself.

Movement in front of him broke his spiral of anger, and he glanced up to see Merrill sitting down, cross-legged, in front of him. When she saw him looking at her, she offered him a gentle smile.

"Why are you still here?" he snapped. "How can you still trust me?"

"If the Keeper thinks you can overcome this, then I believe her. She is very wise."

"She's not right about everything."

"No, she's not." Merrill paused, her eyes darkening (thinking about her shard, most likely). "But I think she's right about you."

He scoffed, but found his internal conflict soothed by that all the same. "How, exactly?"

"I think you can be saved. And I think you're worth saving." He glanced up at her, startled, and she grinned. "If only so that I have someone else who knows what it's like to be the receiver of her disappointed frown."

Despite himself, he found himself kind of smiling. "It _is_ a thing worthy of legend."

She giggled. "Can you imagine, a thousand years from now, the loremasters telling Dalish children about the terrors of disappointing Keeper Marethari? They'd have songs, too, about how she could look at you and turn the proudest warrior into a guilty child!"

Kazar smiled, and the day seemed a bit less difficult.


	8. Time Flies When You're Not Counting It

_(Sorry for the short one. Things will start picking up from here on out, I promise!)_

**8. Time Flies When You're Not Counting It  
**

Weeks turned into months, and those blended together. Kazar spent endless hours with Marethari and her First, learning magical techniques and the ways of the Dales.

His little Pride problem didn't go away—and the Keeper had to remind him many times that it never would—but he learned how to detect the signs of its influence, and he developed ways to clear his mind before it overtook him. It didn't work as often as he liked—he took many trips up to that cave of spiders to work off steam. But he felt safe here; Marethari bore his occasional slips in control with a firm hand and never-ending insistence that he do better next time. Whenever the shame of it overtook him and he stalked off to brood, Merrill would appear and chatter about inconsequentially annoying things, and something about that helped him pull himself back together.

He half expected to wake up one morning to find a Templar hunting party storming the camp, but such a morning never came. He relaxed in stages as months passed with no hints of the Templars leaving their walled city to track him down.

He had to assume that having darkspawn gunk in his veins somehow messed with his phylactery's ability to find him, because Kazar had no doubt that, after his slip in Denerim, if Greagoir could have found him by now, he would have.

Kazar started pitching in more around camp, because simple and repetitive tasks were as good as (and more entertaining than) traditional meditation in keeping his Pride down. Master Ilen was always glad for any help he could provide with his magic, and whoever was on dinner duty would sometimes call him over for a fire or ice spell when they needed a quick fix on a recipe.

Sometimes, when he couldn't sleep, he'd go out to the campfire, and Paivel would meet him there in the firelight and tell him tales and legends about the _elvhen_.

He went out on hunts with Meila occasionally, too, and he liked to think that he slowly became a bit less of a burden in the wilderness. He didn't really add anything to the hunts—he didn't have the stealth or tracking skills for that—but he learned how not to stumble over every upturned root, and that was progress enough to make Meila _smile_.

They never did find the monster that had killed that bear; they had tracked it back to a cave near camp, but an investigation of the cave by their best hunters revealed nothing. It seemed that whatever creature had done that had disappeared. That was, until three months later, when a pair of wild goats were found torn in half halfway down the mountain, apparently by the same incisors that had killed the bear. Again, the hunters couldn't find the thing that had done it. Kazar recalled Paivel's tales of great, ancient forces still wandering the mountains, and could only assume this was such a case. Because that was the sort of crap that happened around Wardens.

Meila, meanwhile, frequently left camp alone to tend to her bear cub. Everyone knew about it, but no one stopped her; everyone seemed too amazed that she was indulging in her protective instincts. Whatever Meila had been before the Wardens, Kazar got the impression that this was a far softer, more likeable Meila Mahariel, even among her own kind.

Time went on, and Kazar ceased to be a novelty around the camp. The clan became more ready to share their knowledge and conversations with him, with some (Ineria, Junar) quicker than others (Terath, Harshal). It was most noticeable when they were preparing Variel to take her _vallaslin_: Kazar's aid was requested in the festivities, while Pol's was not.

That night stuck in his memory... the singing, the recitations, the food... it was an entire process that absolutely breathed of an ancient tradition. And as the Keeper knelt before the girl and applied her _vallaslin_, tears trailed down more than one stoic Dalish face.

Variel, who was always bright and talkative, had been nervous the entire day. But as she sat before the entire clan and had the marks of the gods—the Creators—inked into her skin in a process that Kazar knew from experience hurt like a bitch... she sat as proud as a queen and as still as a statue, never showing any pain until the process was done. Resilience and resolve. That was what it meant to be an adult among the Dalish.

After that, Kazar sometimes caught Pol casting him jealous looks. It wasn't anything he hadn't endured before (being the Ferelden Circle's prodigy had made certain of that), but it was a Pride risk, as his inner demon purred over the fact that he'd obviously overtaken the other flat-ear in the clan's eyes.

As a result, he avoided Pol as a rule. Fortunately, by that point, he'd been afforded his own little lean-to tent. No one wanted to share with him during his restless nights, especially since he had a habit of being jumpy upon waking, and a jumpy mage was usually a dangerous one. He asked Marethari about the nightmares once, but the Keeper was evasive, and merely said something about increased mental control helping pacify it. As of yet, he saw little evidence to prove that.

He couldn't say when, exactly, he had started to give a damn... it was impossible to pick a point. Maybe it was that time the clan's children followed him around, pestering him to show them his cool magic tricks, or maybe it was the time Master Ilen had walked him around the camp, looking for a place to pitch his new tent... the first space he'd ever had that was entirely his own. Perhaps it was when he could take a long trip out of camp barefoot without tearing his feet open, or when the halla stopped shying away from him, or when everyone started calling him _da'lethallin._ Perhaps it was the grand celebration of their way of life that was the application of Variel's _vallaslin,_ or perhaps it was Marethari's proud, warm smile the first time he referred to the Dalish as "we."

He _cared_. About these people. About the long, hard road their... _his_... ancestors had been forced to walk. For the first time, he felt like he was part of that, and he found, much to his astonishment, that there was joy in the pain of that shared heritage.

It was a strange concept that he spent many hours in his little root-ring shrine pondering on. And perhaps that action, in itself, was what Marethari had been attempting to teach him, all those months ago.


	9. DO NOT USE BLOOD MAGIC

_(Moczo: I love reading peoples' reactions as they work through these fics, so watching your review chain was loads of fun! You're not the only one Kazar had a hard time winning over, and I'm glad to see you gave this one a chance anyway! :) ) _

**9**. **DO NOT USE BLOOD MAGIC**

Today's lesson would be herbalism, according to the Keeper, and Merrill was late. There was no way Kazar was suffering through that alone (herbalism had always been, and would always be, one of the most boring subjects on the face of Thedas), so he elected to climb Sundermount to fetch her.

It wasn't like he needed to track her or anything, because she always went up the same path. That was probably for the better: Meila and the other hunters had all tried to teach him how to track, to varying levels of hilarity. It was enough for Kazar that he was getting the hang of moving quietly through the trees. Usually by using his magic to cheat in various ways, but hey, quiet was quiet.

He was practicing that now, using the nature magic in his staff to smooth out the brambles and leaves that fell across the path. He amused himself at this for a while... until he felt a tingle of metallic power on the air that made his blood run cold.

The next moment, his demonic side surged forward as he was inundated with memories of power and glory. Memories from his own lifetime (Flemeth, the bridge at Bownammar) were interspersed with older memories of trouncing lesser beings in the Fade and teaching the arts to mortals (including Jowan). The mountainside around him lit up as he started glowing.

He closed his eyes and breathed, despite the fact that he really wanted to run forward and take the source of blood magic up ahead all for himself. Practice allowed him to separate himself from that wish, and the powerlust faded.

In its wake came a wave of temper. Oh, was he ever _pissed_. Someone was practicing blood magic, and there was only one mage nearby unaccounted for.

Kazar stormed up the mountain, no longer making any attempt to be quiet. He rose over a lip in the path and saw her, hunched over something with a red aura swirling around her.

"What do you think you're doing?!" he snapped, unbidden lightning flickering up his arms as he stomped over to her.

Merrill's head jerked up, her eyes going round, and the blood aura disappeared. "Kazar! Oh... uh, nothing!"

"Bullshit!" Kazar spotted a dagger next to her knee and zapped it with a burst of magic, sending it skidding away.

"Hey!"

"Blood magic?! Are you _kidding_ me?"

Her expression hardened, and she turned back to pick up whatever she had been studying. It appeared to be a piece of glass—the artifact shard, no doubt. She tucked it into her belt pouch and stood stiffly. "I don't think that's any of your business. Marethari sent you, right? All right, let's go." And then she started swiftly down the path, like that was the end of the conversation.

The _Fade_ it was! "Don't turn your back on me!" His Pride surged again, and he bit back a growl of frustration. Again, he had to take a moment to center himself. By the time he did, Merrill was a good forty steps ahead of him. He scurried to catch up.

"Merrill, do you have any idea the forces you're messing with?"

"Of course I do," the First said, a hard note in her voice. "I know what I'm doing, Kazar."

"No, you _don't_." He rushed to get in front of her and whirled to block her path. "They make promises and deals, but it's all _lies_. I thought you _knew _this!"

"That's why I didn't make any deals," she said simply and stepped smoothly around him.

"What? That doesn't make sense!"

"It was a gift from a friendly spirit."

"_You don't learn blood magic from spirits_!"

"I didn't make any deals." She threw him a sour look over her shoulder. "I'm not stupid."

They were nearing the camp just below, so Kazar lowered his voice, but not his venom. "That's debatable."

"I don't believe this!" They were at the edges of the camp proper now, so Kazar wasn't the only one to witness her throw her hands in the air and turn on him in righteous fury. "How could you say such things to me! I would have thought you, of all people, would understand!"

That one stung. "Yeah, I do," he hissed. "That's why you need to _believe me_ when I say that you're making a huge mistake! Some artifact is not worth your _soul_!"

"My soul is not at stake." She glared, and it was like being glared at by all the angry puppies in the world. "A part of our history is, though I don't know why I expected someone like you to be able to understand that."

He hissed, his Pride surging. "You know nothing!" He knew when he started to show because he saw bows being taken up and trained on him from all corners of the camp. "You're just a naive little girl too busy playing with fire to notice your fingers burning!" He advanced on Merrill, delighting in the alarm he saw in her eyes. "I can show you the true costs of blood magic, girl, and it will give you such horrors that you'll never stop screaming!"

And then Marethari was _there_, in front of him, shushing him with a soothing cadence. "That is enough, _da'len_. Center yourself." He wavered, reluctant to blast through the Keeper, and she used that. She laid her hands on his shoulders and loomed close, so that all he could see was her. "Control. You are mortal. You are in control."

He repeated those words silently to himself, bowing his head against the Keeper's support even while his mind rebelled. He, the demon, remembered so many silly, foolish mages just like Merrill, including _himself_, the elf... and that was enough of a double-vision sensation for him to wrest a bit more control from the demon side.

When he finally shook it off and felt normal again, he found himself leaning into the Keeper, his limbs shaking with unsettlement and lingering anger. That, too, he stuffed down. Marethari's hands rubbed soothingly up and down Kazar's arms. That was all that kept him from collapsing, and likely all that kept the other Dalish elves from shooting him right there.

He tried to find a scrap of serenity. Or, failing that, sanity. Yeah, that was doable.

"Now, Merrill," the Keeper's voice said, "what was all that about?"

"I... um..." Her voice was high and tight in panic. _Shit._

"Nothing, Keeper," Kazar mumbled, not sure why. Even so, he mustered enough control to pull away and take a step back. Bowstrings tightened all around, but Meila stood a stolid sentinel behind him, signaling her protection of his abominable ass just as Marethari had. Merrill watched him warily, her eyes wide and terrified of what the clan would do, and Kazar just couldn't throw her under the carriage like that (even if this was _her fault_). "I just lost my temper, and my control slipped. I'm sorry_._"

He knew Marethari well enough now to tell from her piercing gaze that she knew perfectly well he was lying, but she only nodded slowly. "I see. _Da'len_, perhaps you had best wait for me in my _aravel_. I will speak with you in a minute."

Kazar nodded and did as instructed, keeping his head down as he walked so he didn't have to see the entire clan staring at him. He could feel it though, in the wary hush that had fallen over the clan. He huddled in Marethari's _aravel _for some time, fully expecting the elves to storm the tent. Outside, there was nothing but dead silence.

That night, Marethari gathered the clan together around the campfire. There, he sat and stared at the flames while Marethari and Meila explained _everything. _Kazar cringed as his greatest shames (blood magic, attacking his friends, Jowan's death, and all) were laid bare before the entire community, and he could practically hear their trust of him, so painstakingly built, shatter.

"He never made any secret to me what had happened," Marethari said calmly. "I saw his genuine wish to atone, and thus I took him under my wing."

"You are certain he is not a demon in disguise, Keeper?" Paivel asked, because no one younger would have dared question her.

"Of that, I am certain," she said with utmost confidence, and Kazar winced as he stared at his toes.

"He made me promise," Meila added, "when we left the Wardens together, that were he ever to succumb, I would kill him. He was sincere in the request, as was I in the vow, and I would not expect any different from any of you should the need arise."

They were uncomfortable with it... he could practically feel their fear and mistrust. But the Dalish were trained to believe in the wisdom of their Keeper, and so they accepted it and slowly dispersed.

Kazar wasn't going to be thrown off the mountain, for now, but calling this clan a "home" was out of the question. He didn't know why that thought hurt so much.


	10. Don't Feed the Varterral

** 10. Don't Feed the Varterral**

Kazar was sitting near the halla herd a couple days later, watching Maren teach the children about the animals (the deer, at least, did not shy from him the way the elves now did). The herd had wandered a bit farther from camp than it usually did, which meant it was the perfect excuse for Kazar to escape the suspicious eyes of the clan.

He heard someone coming, and glanced sidelong to see the green-clad form of the Keeper's First approaching. When he looked up, she stopped and stood stiffly. "The Keeper sent me," she said. "I'm to bring you back for lessons."

He should really be mad at her... like, royally _pissed. _His ousting was her fault, after all. Yet, he wasn't, really. More... sad. Disappointed. That was weird.

He huffed half-heartedly and turned back to watching the halla.

Merrill lost her stiff posture. She took a few steps closer and fidgeted. Quietly, she asked, "Why didn't you tell the Keeper about... me?"

"I'm not a tattle-tale." Yeah, that was it.

"Oh." Merrill _looked_ at him, her mossy green eyes deep and shining. It made him shift uncomfortably. "I do think it's the right thing to do."

"I'm not having this fight with you." He mustered some sharpness, because _really_. "If you want to justify it, go justify it to Marethari."

Merrill's chin set. "Maybe I will."

Their failure of a conversation was interrupted by a heart-wrenching squeal that made both young mages jump. Kazar clambered to his feet and grabbed his staff from beside him just as the halla erupted into ear-splitting wails.

The herd had wandered near a certain cave... the same one that, months before, the hunters had traced that mysterious bear-killer to, only to come up with nothing for it.

Well, there was certainly something there, now. A carapaced limb the size of an adult tree swept out of the darkness and snatched up another halla, to much crying from the herd.

"Mythal preserve us!" Maren whimpered, and Merrill rushed forward to help her gather the children. Kazar, meanwhile, took a couple steps toward the threat.

It appeared briefly in the sun, a long, thin maw lunging out of the shadows to snap up another halla. The rest of the animals were starting to run, and Kazar saw a few disappear into the forest, but the monster stepped out of its cave and started taking out deer two at a time.

These weren't the actions of a hungry animal looking for sustenance. This was the wild abandon of a creature that was killing to kill. Either in defense of its lair or in sheer bloodlust, they couldn't afford to guess.

Kazar put himself between the monster and the children just as the monster straightened from killing the last of the halla, and Kazar fought down a shiver that was half-fear, half-anticipation.

All told, it was about the size of a dragon, all long, spindly limbs and fearsome edges. Its five (five?!) legs looked as hard as stone, and those legs lifted its body high like a spider's. It had two smaller arms in front that tore the last halla apart as he watched. Most fearsome was the sharp-edged mouth, which appeared to be an implement made solely for cutting and tearing, and could easily chomp a small elf like Kazar in half.

Kazar couldn't tell whether it had eyes on its spindly, craggy form, but he saw it turn toward him, even so. Kazar summoned a fire spell and held it in front of him, ready to shoot as soon as the monster lunged.

Except that it didn't.

The gigantic creature regarded him, standing among the pile of halla corpses and coated in their blood. Kazar barely dared to breathe, because he'd probably only get one shot off before it ate him whole. But he didn't dare shoot first, especially as the monster made no move toward the elves.

He could hear two of the children sniffling behind him, softly hushed by Maren.

Then, one of the monster's long limbs moved... backwards. Slowly, yet with a fearsome grace, it turned and headed back into its cave.

"It's all right, _da'vhen_," Marethari's voice said, and Kazar turned around to realize that a number of elves had been drawn from the camp by the noise of the halla, including the Keeper. "It won't hurt us."

"Keeper, what was that?" Kazar asked, wondering if he'd ever be able to release his grip on his staff.

"A creature that even the Keepers thought was only legend." Marethari's eyes lingered on the monster's lair. "A Varterral, a creature fashioned by the Creators to protect the People."

"The halla," Maren said, her soft voice cracked. "It killed all the halla."

"Some fled," Fenarel said, stepping forward with his bow ready. "Keeper, with your leave..."

"Do what you can," Marethari said, and a number of the hunters broke off in different directions.

Maren shook her head, tears flowing down her face. "Even if they find them, they won't be able to coax them back. Not after this."

"Come, _da'len_. Let us get you something to eat." Marethari set a gentle hand to Maren's shoulder, and started to guide her away.

"Wait," Merrill said suddenly. She took a couple steps toward the halla. "I might be able to save some of them."

"That is a laudable intention, Merrill," the Keeper said gently. "However, my own healing arts could not save them, and you've never had much head for the craft."

"Maybe not before..." She took a few more steps toward the pile, and Kazar saw the glint of a dagger come into her hands.

His stomach clenched as he realized what she was going to try. "Merrill, _don't-_"

Too late. She brought the dagger down on her own hand, and Kazar felt the sudden tug of blood magic on his senses. The demon in him keened in pleasure as the metallic scent filled the air, and he forced himself to look away.

He concentrated on counting his toes and breathing to keep the demon down. From far away, he heard the other elves shouting and crying things at Merrill. He was far more aware of the magic she was trying to infuse into the halla's forms. Their blood sang to him, and he clenched his staff tight.

It didn't work, of course, because blood magic did not mix well with creation magic, and then the magic stopped, and Kazar felt like he could breathe again.

When he had gathered himself enough to pay attention to the world again, he realized that Marethari and Merrill were in an argument that was... honestly, a little vindicating.

"...truly know the risks you take, _da'len_?"

"It is not as bad as you seem to think, Keeper. The spirit is helping me."

"There is always a price, _da'len_. Someday, you will have to pay it."

Merrill had the same stubborn tilt to her head that Meila did. "It is worth it, to bring back a piece of our history that had previously been lost."

"This piece killed Tamlen, Merrill, and nearly killed Meila. It is better that it remain lost, and it is certainly not worth _this_."

"I've made my decision, Keeper."

Marethari sighed and turned away, and, for the first time, she looked _old. _"So be it."

"...Keeper?"

Marethari's gaze rested on Kazar for a moment, and he felt an unexpected pang of guilt. "I am sorry, Merrill. This is a path I cannot condone."

"Wh... what? What are you saying?" Forget Marethari, Merrill looked like a kicked puppy. Who'd then been stabbed and set on fire.

Slowly, Marethari drew herself up, armoring herself in her Keeper-ness before turning back to her First. "You must choose, Merrill. I cannot have you putting the clan in danger. Either you leave this path you are headed down... or you must leave the clan."

Merrill went stark white. "You... you're casting me out? But... but _he_ knows blood magic, and you _took him in_!" She pointed at Kazar, and he was surprised by how much that accusation stung.

"And he has chosen a life free of demons and blood magic both. You, _da'len_, would embrace it." She paused, and continued more softly. "Please, _da'len_. Forget the Eluvian. Come back to us."

Slowly, her eyes growing wet (at which point Kazar realized he'd never seen the other mage cry, and it was kind of horrible), Merrill shook her head. "I cannot. I'm sorry, Keeper."

"As am I." Marethari sighed. "Come, everyone. We've much to digest. Let us do so in the safety and solitude of our camp." Stiff and serene, the Keeper started away from the scene of carnage, and the rest of the clan slowly trickled behind her.

Kazar found himself surrounded by elves who were now far less hostile; Merrill gleaned all the suspicious looks now. The clan, it seemed, had found a new pariah, and the First's fall from grace was not nearly as vindicating as it should have been.


	11. Don't Resurrect Any Ancient Evil Witches

**11. Do Not Resurrect Any Ancient Evil Witches**

Marethari was trying, he had to give her credit. She was certainly _trying_ to remain stoic and serene. And that was about all he could give her credit for, because she was utterly failing.

She didn't show it much to the rest of the clan... her role as Keeper was obviously too ingrained for her to let that slip. But when it was just the two of them, going over the finer points of old magic in her _aravel_, she grew overly despondent, and would occasionally glance at the spot nearby where Merrill usually sat.

And the First hadn't even left camp yet.

And so, when Marethari sensed the approach of Flemeth's messenger (after learning about magic from her for months on end, he knew better than to ask how), Kazar excused himself and headed up the mountain.

Kazar couldn't say he blamed Merrill for hiding outside camp day-in and day-out. If the clan's glares had been uncomfortable for _him_, he couldn't imagine what it felt like for Merrill, who had been legitimately one of them.

And was that sympathy? By the Fade, he'd gone soft.

He didn't have to go far before he felt the tingle of blood magic on the air. Even after all that...? Gah, never mind. Expecting Merrill to be logical about this matter was like expecting a halla to suddenly start craving live meat.

He climbed the hill and spotted her bent over the shard again. As soon as she sensed him, she immediately cut off her magic and stood. She turned on him with a cold look. "Oh. It's you."

"Merrill–"

"_Don't_. I'm fixing the artifact, and someone like you is not going to change my mind."

_Someone like me? _"What about Marethari, then? Don't you care about _her_?"

That got her. She visibly flinched, but then went hot, too. "Don't you dare bring the Keeper into this!"

"She's _heartbroken_. Isn't that enough to drop this shit and pretend to be reasonable, for once?"

"Stop it! You don't understand anything, so just stop it!"

"_I _don't understand?! I think the problem here is I understand _perfectly_, and you're still _not listening, you stupid twit!_" His Pride surged, and he turned away with a hiss as the world went briefly red. They remained in silence for a moment while Kazar pulled himself together.

Once he felt like himself again, he turned back toward her to find her staring down at a rock on the edge of the path.

"She sensed someone coming just now," Kazar said. That had been the reason he sought her out... might as well spit it out. "She's going to send you away with them."

Merrill flinched, but nodded. "That's fine."

"And that's... it? You're just going to accept that?"

"I know what I have to do." She gave him that kicked-puppy glare of hers. "Which is more than I think can be said about you."

_Ouch. _He very consciously did _not_ rise to that. "And Marethari means nothing–"

"Marethari means _everything_. _She_ is the one who taught me to treasure every bit of our legacy that I could! As a Keeper! What I don't understand is why _you_ care about her so much!"

"She's _saving_ my _soul_. Do you seriously think I'm ungrateful enough not to care about her after that?"

"I wouldn't be surprised." Was she trying to be _mean_ now? It should have been funny,except it was really only making him angrier_. _"Is that really why you're here? Really? Just for the Keeper?"

"What are you trying to say, exactly?"

"I don't understand how you can be so frustrating!"

"_I'm _frustrating?!"

"Yes! Admit it! Ever since you learned about it, you've been giving me disapproving looks as bad as hers. You expect me to make the same mistakes you did, but I won't! I know what I'm doing!"

"That's debatable."

"See, that's what I mean! You don't trust me at all! _None of you_ trust me!"

"Maybe I just don't want you to leave!" It came out a lot louder and higher-pitched than he'd intended, and the intensity of it shocked them both into silence. Shit, how could he make that unhappen? Please, let there be a way that didn't just _happen_.

"Should I just... come back later?" an unfamiliar woman's voice asked, and both elves turned.

Four people stood on the path just below them. The woman in front looked at them expectantly, her broad, bare arms crossed in front of her dented steel breastplate. She had a bloodstained halberd strapped to her back (seriously, who used a _halberd?_). There was something about her face shape and the way her black hair fell across her shoulders that seemed distantly familiar to Kazar.

Behind her was a mismatched group: a dwarf with a massive crossbow on his back and a waistcoat that showed as much cleavage as Morrigan's witch-of-the-wilds number had; another woman with dark hair, twin daggers, and _more_ cleavage; and fricking _Anders_.

Apparently, Kazar wasn't the only Fereldan apostate hiding in the area.

"Don't stop on my account," the woman in the lead said, her head tilting to the side. "I do so hate to interrupt a good squabble." She had a Fereldan accent. This must be Flemeth's messenger, whatever that meant.

"I'm done," Kazar spat, pointedly turning from Merrill and starting down the path. He shoved past the group, ignoring Anders' curious stare. "Go then, Merrill, if it's that fucking important."

"Well," he heard the dwarf say as he stalked down the path away from them, "that was anti-climactic."

"Probably better that way," Anders' voice said lightly. "I would bet his version of 'climactic' involves lots of pretty explosions."

Luckily he was out of earshot by the time anyone responded. He didn't want to hear any more from any of them. He stomped back into camp nursing his temper, only to spot Marethari standing stiffly by the fire, speaking with a few of the other elders.

She turned a nod to greet him as he pulled up beside her, and answered a question he'd had no intention of voicing. "Her name is Hawke. _Asha'belannar _saved her life, and she came across the sea to repay that debt. There is something to be admired in that."

Kazar stifled a scoff and crossed his arms. "And she's taking Merrill?"

Marethari closed her eyes. "Yes. She agreed to take Merrill with her, and promised to look after her."

_Good riddance_, he thought bitterly. He just huffed and glared into the fire, because it, at least, could take his frustration.

The Keeper laid a gentle hand on his arm and squeezed it wordlessly. He sighed and sat down, and _hahren_ Vinell handed him a plate of herbs to start cutting.

He lost himself in the task for a while. It was almost peaceful, until the familiar sound of wings echoed across the mountains, and a shadow swooped over the camp.

Kazar jerked and looked upward, and his blood ran cold. A purple dragon flew overhead... but, somehow, he knew this was no normal high dragon. He was assaulted by the memories, and had to duck his head as both fear and Pride washed over him.

_Grow, and discover, and know yourself. I have no doubt we will meet again._

The sound of wings faded away quickly, but he didn't stop shaking for a long while.

Flemeth was back.


	12. Make Peace (or Something Sellable)

**12. Make Peace (or at Least Something Sellable) **

At the time, he expected that to be the last time they saw this "Hawke" woman. Years later, he'd look back on that assumption and _laugh_.

A couple weeks after Merrill left, the outer scouts picked up something interesting: there was a small group of unfamiliar Dalish in the area. Humans, the clan had long since learned to tolerate, because there was no end to the various bands of marauders and refugees wandering the lower slopes of the mountains (to say nothing of the rogue Qunari that had taken up sanctuary in a cave system along the coast... a development that unsettled Kazar to no end, because he'd fought beside Sten long enough to know that Qunari didn't mess around).

But unfamiliar Dalish was a new one, and barely detectable even by their own best scouts. The clan was brimming with both curiosity and concern, and sent out numerous hunting parties throughout the area to see if they could make contact.

Kazar tagged along with Meila as she scouted. He was happy to escape the camp for a couple hours (the whispers going around the clan were now saying that he'd somehow corrupted their precious First, and a little niggling voice in the back of his head wondered if that was true). The two of them were alone, excepting the mabari-sized bear cub that now followed at her heels. Whatever. He'd gotten used to the wolf; he could get used to the bear.

It was almost nostalgic. It reminded him of their journey here, just the two Wardens forging through the wilderness. Kazar recalled that he wouldn't likely be where he was now without her help. It was a humbling thought.

The pair (plus bear) of them worked their way along the craggy coastline in companionable silence, and so they both easily heard a voice raised in an angry scream. They only had to glance at one another once before they were surging forward, the bear lumbering along behind them.

They came out of a clump of trees on top of a ten-foot high ledge looking down over the source of the shout.

The scene was frozen for the moment, and divided neatly on opposite sides of a sandy clearing for ease of comprehension. On one side was a squad of Dalish hunters, armed to the teeth and looking furious; on the other, a small group of humans in ratty clothing. Kazar, oddly, thought he recognized people from both sides, though he wasn't sure where from.

Standing firmly between them, one hand held out toward each party, was Hawke. She still had the dwarf with her. However, instead of her other two companions, she was now accompanied by a red-headed woman in steel armor and a white-haired elf holding a massive greatsword.

"Now hold on just a minute!" Hawke said. "What do you mean by 'they're werewolves?' I can't help but notice the lack of fur and fangs."

"We were werewolves, once," one of the humans said. "But our curse was lifted." To the elves, he said, "We were just as much victims as you were!"

Oh. Now Kazar realized why they all looked so familiar.

Well, shit.

"They attacked our clan!" snapped the leader of the Dalish hunters, who Kazar vaguely recalled seeing amongst Zathrian's clan during the Witherfang debacle. "He and his kind killed our women and children. _This one _killed my mother!"

The Hawke woman turned a sharp look at the ex-werewolves. "Is that true?"

"Yes... and I'm very sorry..."

"Sorry doesn't bring my mother back!" the hunter screamed and drew a shortsword.

"Now, wait just a minute!" Hawke shouted, leaping out to block the Dalish elf as she lunged. The elf only growled and turned on her, and the battle was joined.

"_Da'lethallin_," Meila said, drawing her bow, "we cannot allow harm to befall either side."

Kazar snorted, not seeing how that could fail to happen. Even so, as Meila used her dagger as an anchor to slide down the rock face, Kazar raised his staff and summoned all the nature magic lurking within it. He directed the magic into the ground at the feet of the scuffle between the elves and Hawke's group, and everyone was immediately ensnared in a tangle of vines.

Well, almost everyone. The white-haired elf with Hawke swiveled his head up toward Kazar and growled a low, "_Mage!_" barely audible above the alarmed shouts his spell had inspired.

Then, the elf started to _sing_. Well, actually, it was more of a glow, but Kazar was abruptly overwhelmed by the humming sensation it emitted... it sounded like home. He stumbled back a step, dazed, even as the other elf appeared to run right through the summoned tangle of roots. By the time Kazar had mastered himself, the glowing elf had bounded up the rock face, gotten a clawed gauntlet on the ledge, and vaulted up onto the overhang beside him.

A greatsword swung straight at his head, and Kazar had the presence of mind to jerk backwards and topple onto his back. Painfully, especially when a cluster of rocks smacked into his back just below his left shoulderblade.

The glowing elf loomed, face twisted in loathing as he raised his sword. The weapon was about the size _he_ was... it would cut through the mage like a knife through cheese.

Yeah, right. Like he would take that lying down.

As the sword came down, he shot out a blast of fire, and the taller elf reeled back as it exploded in his face. Then, still on his back, Kazar dug both hands in the ground and poured his magic into it, creating an earthquake that chattered his teeth, but forced the other elf to his knees. Nearby, he heard the bear cub crying out in alarm, and realized he should probably take the fight away from Meila's not-exactly-tame pet.

He rolled right off the ledge, summoning a tangle of vines to catch him mid-fall and lower him to the ground unharmed. With a low growl, the other elf followed him a bit less gracefully.

The white-haired elf adjusted his grip on his massive sword to charge again, but a cry of "Broody, hold up!" gave him pause.

The elf glanced sideways at the dwarf who had spoken, still holding his sword high. "What?" he grunted.

Warily, Kazar followed his gaze.

His vines had worked... surprisingly well, as they were still holding strong. Most of the Dalish elves were still tangled up, as was the red-headed human and the dwarf, though the red-head was going about cutting up the vines with steady resolve. The dwarf didn't even seem to be trying to escape, despite the fact he was currently suspended upside-down.

Only the human, Hawke, had managed to free herself, and she stood beside the dwarf's hanging form, leaning on her halberd and looking at Kazar with a tilted head. That was... creepy.

Matter-of-factly, the upside-down dwarf said, "I'm pretty sure they're on our side."

"They're Dalish," the white-haired elf growled. "They obviously came to aid their fellows."

Hawke jerked a thumb over her shoulder. "Is that why that one is talking them down?"

Sure enough, behind her, Meila was speaking soothingly with the leader of the Dalish hunters. The hunter hissed something back to Meila's soft words, and Meila stiffened. From the looks of it, what peace she could forge would likely only last as long as it took for the hunters to escape the vines.

Kazar glanced at the glowy elf, who was eyeing him suspiciously but had at least reluctantly lowered his sword. With the immediate threat no longer quite as immediate, Kazar decided to be productive.

He headed for the humans, who had been cornered against the cliff the entire time. There were only a handful of them—no Swiftrunner or anyone like that—but he could remember a few of their faces from the Brecilian ruins all the same. Hard to forget the faces of people you saved.

Or killed, but that was a guilt trip for another time.

"I... I remember you," one of the humans said. "You two are the ones that broke Zathrian's curse." Around him, the other human faces lit up in grateful smiles.

"Yeah, and we didn't save your asses just to have a recalcitrant Dalish hit them with arrows." He found himself standing in front of them with his arms crossed, like an enchanter scolding apprentices caught outside their quarters after curfew.

"We were just trying to get away. Make new lives for ourselves."

Okay, yeah. Kazar could understand that. He glanced back at the Dalish hunters again. They were glaring, and he saw one of them trying to wrestle his bow out of the roots.

He sighed and lowered his voice. "Go to the city."

Eyes widened. "What? But we've never... we wouldn't know _how_ to live there."

Oh yeah. Many of these had been born with their curse, in the forest. "Look, Dalish elves are _really_ stubborn. They're not going to stop hunting you, _ever_. Your best bet is to escape into the city where they won't be able to follow. There's one in the valley... go there. Get on a ship. Go to another city. But for the love of Witherfang, _don't_ leave civilization." The humans had nothing but the cloth on their backs... crap. After a moment of deliberation, Kazar took the only thing of monetary value on himself—the Warden's Oath amulet—and handed it to the one who had spoken. "Sell this. Use the money to help pay for food, passage, whatever."

And now the guy was tearing up. Then he _bowed_. "Thank you, sir. We can never repay you for all you've done."

"You can start by not dying. Go."

The humans nodded and scurried off, hopefully to get started on Kazar's words.

"How dare you!?" That was the lead Dalish huntress. "You know what they did, Warden, and you let them _go_?!" She fought against the vines.

Meila said, "They cannot be held accountable for what they did under curse, _lethallan_. I know it will not bring your mother back, but living your life in hatred begets nothing."

"What would you know about it?!"

"Humans killed my father, as well." Wait, _what_? "I held that hatred inside me for a long time. It is not easy, but we can help you."

"I don't _want_ to let it go!"

"Then at least take a rest." The huntress started a protest, but Meila overran her. "Your father asked that I keep an eye out for you. He is worried." The huntress quieted. "Come, my clan's camp is up the mountain. Let us at least draft a message to send him so that he and the rest of your clan knows you are well. We can take care of you for a night, then you can go back to hunting tomorrow."

The hunter glare-pouted, and the others behind her were looking uncertainly among themselves. "Fine," she spat. "But only because we owe you for what you did for our clan, Warden." Meila nodded, and Kazar waved his staff to relax the vines.

Once all the elves had touched down, the Dalish dashed up the mountain and disappeared.

Applause brought both Wardens' attention to the audience of that whole exchange.

Hawke was clapping, a smirk on her face. The red-head and the elf stood at either side of her, while the dwarf sat at her feet... buffing his crossbow?

"That was well-done," Hawke said, "if a little too easy after the vine-restraints bit."

"I thought it was effective," the red-head said. She was peering at Kazar curiously. "Did that elf say you were Grey Wardens?" Her gaze turned to Meila, and she nodded. "Yes, I can see it now. You were among the Wardens at Ostagar."

Hawke snapped her fingers. "Right, I remember. The mage that destroyed all the West Hills training equipment!"

Kazar stiffened. _That_ was a tidbit he'd never thought would come back to haunt him.

"You were at Ostagar?" Meila asked. She moved to stand beside Kazar.

"Who wasn't?" Hawke replied easily, twirling her halberd casually. "All that Taint and betrayal; it was a real party." She stepped forward. "But we haven't met formally. I'm Hawke."

The dwarf chuckled. "Now, don't you think a proper introduction should include your full name?"

"Oh, Maker, no. Hawke. The name is Hawke, and anyone who says different is getting a haft up the arse. The one with the smart mouth here is Varric Tethras."

The dwarf bobbed his head in greeting. "How do you do?" He was pretty good-humored about this whole thing, considering he'd just been hanging upside-down by his ankle. He was still wearing the coat-of-much-chest-hair, but it was easier now to see just how well-tailored his get-up was. He wasn't just a beardless dwarf: he was a _wealthy_ beardless dwarf.

"We've also got Aveline Vallen," Hawke gestured with the halberd toward the other woman, "and Fenris," gesturing toward the elf.

Aveline nodded civilly, stowing her sword in its sheath. She was a tall woman, and every inch of her was solid strength and steel plate. Kazar had seen her kind before... they called themselves _every Templar ever._ At least this Aveline wasn't openly hostile.

The same couldn't be said about Fenris. He was tall too, for an elf. But where Aveline was pure strength, Fenris was all angles and loping sinew. Kazar couldn't figure out why the tattoos on his neck and arms had glowed... nor why the glowing had affected him like that.

Nor did he have any intention of asking. Fenris was eyeing Kazar's staff with narrowed eyes.

"You have a problem?" Kazar snapped.

"You're an apostate," was the growled response.

Hawke tilted her head thoughtfully. "Is he technically an apostate if he's Dalish, and therefore doesn't follow the Chantry?"

Fenris turned to address the woman. "The last Dalish mage we took in was a blood mage. Who's to say this one isn't the same?"

Kazar felt himself tense, suddenly very aware of the mire of demonic _things _lurking inside him. True, he hadn't used blood magic since the Deep Trenches, but once you used blood magic, it just kind of _stayed_ there. Stuck in your soul. What if they could tell?

Meila's hand fell on his arm.

Hawke sighed theatrically. "Fine. You, solemnly swear you're not a blood mage, and we'll let you go about your business."

He felt a spike of indignance, and that was a quick route to his glowing problem right there. "Why should I prove myself to you?"

"What, haven't you heard of me?" She smirked and put her hands on her hips. "I'm Hawke. I do things. Usually for money, but sometimes for moral fulfillment."

"And so I'm... what, some random encounter for you to prove your loyalties to the Templars? Is that how it works in your mind?"

She opened her mouth, but the dwarf patted her foot. "It's better not to answer that," he advised.

"How is Merrill doing?" Meila asked, before Kazar could tell this Hawke lady just where to shove it.

Hawke holstered her halberd across her back. "She's settling into the Kirkwall Alienage. Apparently, someone got mugged outside her door a couple nights ago. She thought it was exciting."

_That does sound like her. _No, no. He didn't care.

Fenris crossed his arms and turned to give Hawke a flat look. "You've been visiting her."

"Riiiiight," Hawke said. "You didn't know about that. Forgot that part."

"Hawke..."

"It's fine. It's not like I'm _condoning_ her use of blood magic or anything. And think of it this way: if we've got a maleficar...ish person in Kirkwall, why not where we can keep an eye on her?"

Fenris sighed, but let it go with the air of one who knew the argument was pointless.

Hawke nodded as if his capitulation was her due, then turned her attention back to Meila and Kazar. "Anyway. Thank you, Wardens, for the help. That would have gotten bloody without your aid... not that I couldn't go for a little bloodshed, but it does take some of the fun out of it if the victims are innocent." She shrugged. "So can we get your names, for when Varric writes this in his novelization of my glorious life?"

Kazar had no words. Just... there were no words for this. He looked at Meila helplessly. She met him with a baffled look, but was far more adept at keeping herself composed than he was.

At last, Meila managed a somewhat chilly "You do not need to know that."

"Smarter than our other runaway Warden," Varric said with a smile. At Hawke's curious look, he shrugged. "What? When you're in hiding, you don't tell every refugee in Kirkwall your name." There was a Warden hiding in Kirkwall? "Not that it matters. Anyone who knows anything about the Fifth Blight can peg these two." Varric gave the two of them a friendly smile with a slightly cocked brow. "Am I right, Meila Mahariel and Kazar Surana?"

Kazar released a swear he'd once heard Garott Brosca say.

"Wait, let me get this straight," Hawke said. "You've heard of them, but they haven't heard of me?" She crossed her arms with an exaggerated pout. "I think I'm insulted."

"You're just not famous yet," the dwarf said smoothly. "Have patience. We're working on it."

"So what do you want?" Kazar broke in, before they started... _bantering_ again. "For silence?"

"Don't trust anything he offers," Fenris said quickly under his breath.

Kazar glared at him. "I can _hear_ you."

Fenris' eyes narrowed. "Good."

"We don't need anything for silence," Aveline said firmly. "Right, Hawke?"

Hawke turned her pout on the other woman. "But... but _Aveline_! He's offering me a bribe!"

"_No_, Hawke."

"But... but _money_!"

"No." Aveline regarded the pair of elves. "As far as I'm concerned, the Dalish are out of our jurisdiction. As long as they don't make a nuisance of themselves or come into Kirkwall, their identities are their own business."

"Besides," Varric added. "They're _Dalish_. I doubt they have money to trade. They'll probably try to barter with rabbit skins or something."

Kazar began to resent that, but then considered that he'd just given away his Warden's Oath amulet... yeah. The dwarf had a point.

"Fine," Hawke relented. "Safe travels, Meila Mahariel and Kazar Surana." She waved her hand in a signal, and the ragtag band started off. "I have a feeling we will meet again."

As they walked away, Kazar muttered, "Why does that sound so ominous?" As he turned to Meila to confirm, he only found that she had already set to climbing the cliff face behind them. She made it look easy, too. With a sigh, Kazar moved to follow, summoning a tangle of roots to help bear him up the incline.

Once at the top, he spotted her kneeling down not far away, cooing at a fretful bear. "_Dar'tisha_," she said, telling the bear to be at peace in a language that most people didn't understand, so he didn't see how a bear would. "You are safe, _Da'falon_."

"'Little friend'? You named it 'little friend'?" he asked incredulously as he stopped beside her. She cast him a slight smile, then went back to whispering to the bear. "You do realize that's going to be incredibly ironic in about a year, right?"

"He chose his own name, _da'lethallin_." She stood and turned to him. Yep, she was definitely smiling. "I am not one to deny him that right."

"Uh huh." He stared down at the ever-growing bear cub, who looked up at him with big brown eyes amidst its black fur. "And I suppose the irony is lost on you, then? Pity."

The bear blinked, obviously not understanding a word, and it was almost enough to make Kazar miss talking to Cousland's mabari. Almost.


	13. Remember the Vir Tanadhal

**13. Remember the _Vir Tanadhal_**

The first one to ask him about it was Harshal.

"So... is it just in there? All the time?" the hunter asked. He and a handful of others were clearing out a group of giant spiders that had wandered too close to camp. Kazar had been loitering, so Marethari had sent him out to help with it. He was never one to turn down a chance to chuck fireballs at monsters.

And so, he was left leaning on his staff, watching the hunters range over the dead spiders for useful bits before asking Kazar to burn the rest. It was then that Harshal, bent over one spider's mandibles while he carefully extracted poison into a small pot, glanced up at him through messy red bangs and asked.

"It's not an 'it'," Kazar said, a little irked. He'd done pretty well not to let it out since Merrill left, but the Dalish never let _anything_ go. If they did, they wouldn't be Dalish. (The hunters from Zathrian's clan were proof of that. They'd spent a single night with the Sabrae clan, and then were gone with the dawn.)

The clan had been warming to him by slow degrees again. It was obvious, however, that they treated him with the wariness one might treat a potentially dangerous animal. Kazar knew that if he ever stepped out of line, he'd be dead by a dozen arrows before he could so much as say, "Just kidding."

Which made the fact that Harshal was talking about it both disconcerting and encouraging.

"If it's not an 'it'," the hunter said impetuously, "then what is it?"

"It's me." Harshal motioned for him to elaborate... which was impressive, since both his hands were tied up in his task. "There's no separate being or anything. I just lose my temper and start to... glow."

"What's it like?"

Ineria, who was cutting up a spider some feet away, glanced over incredulously. "Is that really a line of questioning you want to pursue, love?"

Kazar agreed, but he answered anyway. "It's scary." He found himself staring down at his toes. "I forget that I'm mortal. Kind of want to see everything burn."

"And that's in there even now?"

Now that his attention was drawn to it, yeah. He could feel the demon in him, whispering through his veins. He'd learned to tune it out, but it was always there nonetheless. "Yeah."

"Hm." Harshal turned back to his spider, and they worked in silence.

Then, it was Maren.

"Um, _da'lethallin_?' her voice asked softly from above him.

He looked up from the grouse _hahren_ Vinell had somehow guilted him into defeathering to see the elf hovering over him, huddled over as if trying to curl up into herself. Maren had been listless ever since the incident with the Varterral. "Yeah?"

"I wanted to ask you something. If that's okay."

Uncomfortable, he turned back to his task. "Sure, whatever." You couldn't snap at Maren; it was like snapping at a kicked puppy.

The former halla-keeper nodded to herself and knelt down beside him. Her hands smoothed her skirts nervously.

He let her sit for a couple minutes, concentrating on his task. Finally, when he could no longer take it, he asked, "What did you want to ask me about?"

"The…" she said in a lowered voice. "The demon."

Oh. "What about it, exactly?"

"Could it have saved the halla?"

He dropped the bird and gawked at her. "What?"

She stared down at her hands, still smoothing her skirt. "If you had let it out, could it have saved the halla?"

He shook his head, but not in denial. "It doesn't matter."

She looked up, and he was alarmed to see tears in her eyes. "You don't understand. The halla were our responsibility to protect, just as we are their responsibility to guide. You cannot have a clan without halla." Tears streamed down her cheeks. "And I failed both of them."

Kazar wasn't sure what to say to make her feel better… he'd never been one to give comfort. But now there was a teary person in front of him, and a quick glance around camp revealed no incoming aid.

"Look," he tried, "it's not your fault. None of us could have stood up to that thing."

"Except your demon."

"Maybe?" Kazar turned back to his grouse and started plucking it with a bit more aggression than was perhaps necessary. "But it wouldn't have been an answer. Marethari says the Varterral instinctively avoids hurting elves. But if I'd attacked it, those instincts would probably have been overridden for self-preservation. Even if it could be defeated—and to hear the Keeper tell it, they're damn near immortal—it would have killed elves before it went."

She shook her head. "Losing the halla is no better. They were our partners. Our friends."

"And it sucks that we lost them, I know." Kazar dared to glance at her, and she sniffled. "But my… condition only makes things worse, not better."

"I know… I'm sorry." She wiped her eyes. "I shouldn't have asked."

He shrugged and bowed his head. "You miss them. That's okay, I think, and anyone who says otherwise is an ass."

She cracked a hesitant smile, then stood and left him in peace.

Then, Junar mentioned it.

"No chance you can turn on your glowing thing, is there?" the hunter asked. Kazar was helping clear a spider nest (it was always spiders) in a cave with a handful of hunters. The flames of the burned webs died down quickly, leaving them all in pitch-black.

"You want me to summon my inner demon?" Kazar asked flatly.

"If it would give us some decent light…"

Kazar summoned a tongue of flame to the end of his staff, figuring a makeshift torch was safer than nurturing his Pride. In the flickering light, he saw the playful smirk on the hunter's face. Fenarel thwacked Junar in the back of his head with his bow.

"You've got an awful sense of humor, you know that?" Fenarel said.

The brown-haired elf just shrugged. "Well, if he's got the ability to turn into a raging Pride-monster, might as well be useful about it, right?"

Fenarel shared an eye roll with Kazar, who smirked despite himself. "I think I'll stick with this," the mage waved his lit staff, "if it's all the same to you guys."

"No fun," Junar joked, and Fenarel propelled him forward into the darkness to resume the hunt.

Then, it was Paivel.

This one was in the quiet of the night. Kazar had awakened in a cold sweat—an increasingly rare occurrence, but it still happened from time to time. He'd headed out to the campfire, as usual, wholly prepared to sit alone, just as he'd done ever since the clan had discovered what he was. He snagged a cup and some tea leaves, and then huddled by the fire, using magic to heat the tea.

He'd been there a while, watching the dancing flames, when he heard the familiar step of _hahren _Paivel. Kazar watched silently, not wanting to jinx it, as the loremaster sat across the fire from him. Once he was seated, the elder elf laced his fingers and regarded Kazar solemnly for a moment.

Then, at barely above a whisper, Paivel said, "Tell me the story."

A dam inside him burst, and it came pouring out, in far greater detail than the version he'd given Marethari initially, as well as the one Meila and the Keeper had told the camp. He told Paivel of the fear of being an apprentice alone during the Harrowing, and the relief he'd felt upon meeting someone willing to help him without recompense. He told of the transcendent feeling of joining for the first time, of feeling incomprehensibly _whole_. And the horror of waking up in the Deep Trenches, knowing you'd hurt your comrades, and the agony of learning that your only childhood friend had sacrificed himself to save a soul that could never actually be saved.

Paivel listened to it all in steady silence, and Kazar kept throwing words at him in hopes that Paivel could somehow absorb them and take them away. By the end of it—telling of Meila giving up everything for _his sake—_he was near tears, and helpless to stop the rush of words. He spilled how he sometimes felt like the stupidest, most wretched creature on Thedas, and sometimes, he wished Marethari had turned him out, because it seemed like everything he touched turned to ash.

When the flood ceased, he panted quietly in the darkness of the camp, accompanied only by the crackling of the fire.

"Those," Paivel said softly, speaking for the first time that night, "are not words a Pride demon would be able to say, _da'len_."

Kazar rubbed his eyes, _hating_ how his sleeve came away moist, but helpless to stop it. "And yet, I can feel it. It taints my thoughts sometimes, and I'm trying to keep it down but it's so _exhausting_ to be on my guard for it every moment of the day." He cradled his head in his hands. "But I can't relax. Not even a little. Because if it gets out, I might hurt someone."

"And that, _da'len_, is why Marethari let you stay."

Kazar raised his head to find Paivel regarding him steadily. "You think so?"

"I cannot speak for her... but yes, I believe so. You've made mistakes, as we all do, and you will not cease the attempt to overcome them. There is strength in that."

Kazar didn't feel very strong.

Paivel picked up a stick and prodded the fire to help it catch on a log. "Tell me, _da'len_, do you remember the _Vir Tanadahl_?"

Kazar nodded uncertainly. He'd first heard it back at Ostagar, when Meila had recited it at Felicity's request. Then, upon arriving here, he'd heard it over and over again.

"_Vir Assan_," Paivel prompted.

"Fly straight," Kazar said, "and do not waver." He was trying. Spirits knew, he was trying.

"Good. _Vir Bor'assan?_"

"Bend but never break." He sat up. He wouldn't break. Not when he knew what he might become otherwise.

Paivel smiled warmly. "Yes. And _Vir Adahlen_?"

Kazar met the _hahren's_ eyes, and he suddenly understood the old man's point. Softly, he recited, "Together we are stronger than one."

Paivel nodded once, then reached around the fire to grasp Kazer's hand. "We will not let you waver, _da'len_. If you find no strength in yourself, then take strength in your clan."

Kazar nodded mutely, because something stuck in his throat made it hard to speak. He cleared it harshly, and Paivel stood up and gave him a moment of privacy.


	14. Never Mess With Hawke

_(codellmarie: Funny you should mention that... :) )_

**14. Never Mess With Hawke**

Time passed in a constant procession, marked by the slow, inexorable changing of the seasons. The first snowfall up on Sundermount was a wondrous affair, with the older elves watching the silent flurries while bundled together against the chill in their _aravels_.

Kazar spent most of it outside with the children, delighting at engaging the little rascals in the most dire of snow wars, while they cackled and took advantage of the chance to pelt _him_ with ice for a change. By nightfall, as the clan gathered around the warm campfire, Kazar's cheeks ached from smiling. With Master Ilen's help, he made the _da'vhen_ figurines made of ice, and within a few days they were staging miniature battles of ice figures around camp.

Maren burst into tears and (much to his horror) hugged him when he presented her with an ice figurine of a halla.

It wasn't the same as before, of course. Every time he grew upset, he could see how everyone suddenly grew tense and wary, the hunters reaching for their bows. He lost control in their presence twice more: the first time while fighting giant spiders with the hunters (it was _always fricking spiders_), and the second because of _Pol_ and his mage-phobia. Meila and Marethari managed to talk him down, respectively. But his last slip had been weeks ago, now, and it seemed that, when he wasn't in danger of glowing like a demonic firefly, they settled on treating him with the same careful wariness that he'd gotten from his fellow apprentices growing up, back when his temper was a particular problem.

After the snowfall, Kazar felt particularly useful. His magic was put to work keeping the camp warm and dry.

It was one of the few times, Kazar noticed, that the Dalish used boots. Not that he blamed them; snow was cold, and it _clung_. It was a marvel to the Circle-bred elf, at the same time it was an annoyance. It got everywhere, tracking into the _aravels _and tents and making everything wet. Thank the Creators for magic; he quickly perfected a use of fire magic that dried cloth without harming the fiber, and the others were quick to take advantage of it. Honestly, he didn't mind. It made him feel like his magic was useful for something other than frying darkspawn and spiders.

A couple weeks into winter, the clan detected a large group of humans moving a bit too close to camp. A handful of hunters left to investigate, only to run afoul of _Tal-Vashoth_ who were doing to same. Most of the rest of the hunters left to go take care of that mess, meaning there weren't any warriors in camp when Ginnae, one of the herbalists, gave an alarmed screech.

Kazar, who had been helping Master Ilen cure leather, reacted immediately, grabbing up his staff and whirling on the source of the sound. Ilen wasn't slow in grabbing a bow from under his worktable, either. Marethari burst out of her _aravel_, a staff also in her hand.

No threat was forthcoming, though. The treeline was undisturbed, and everything was peaceful, except for a clearly-panicking Ginnae.

"What is wrong, _da'len_?" Marethari asked gently, lowering her staff and walking toward the distraught woman. Kazar approached more cautiously, looking around for what might have upset her.

"Keeper, he's gone! I turned my back for a second, and he disappeared! Radha's going to kill me!"

Oh.

On top of being one of their better hunters, Radha was also the mother of the youngest of the clan's children: a toddler named Tamlen, born during the Blight and named after a dead guy. The little guy was at the point where he could sometimes waddle a couple upright steps before falling on his face and could babble a few syllables in succession when prompted. Raising a Dalish child was definitely communal: everyone pitched in to raise him. When his mother was out ranging, the rest of the clan would take care of him as a matter of course. There was nothing more hilarious than watching the usually-stoic Dalish coo and make faces at the toddler. Ancient Elvish was not conducive to baby-talk, but they certainly tried.

Kazar wouldn't have known what to do with a baby if he wanted to, so he made do with occasionally entertaining the child with pretty magic lights and left all the feeding-burping-pooping crap to the rest of the clan.

Apparently, Ginnae was on babysitting duty today. Sure enough, Radha's blanket was laid near her worktable, alongside a small collection of wooden and bone figurines and a toy lute Master Ilen had made for Tam last month. The only thing the little play area was lacking was a toddler.

"_Dar'atisha, da'len_," the Keeper said soothingly. "We will find him." A number of elves were gathered around the herbalist, including Kazar.

"He's just a baby," Viriel said cheerfully. "He can't have gone far."

Ginnae nodded, still anxious but no longer near tears. "Radha said he'd been exploring more of late and would need watching. I should have listened!"

"It will be all right," Marethari repeated. "We will search the camp." She nodded meaningfully at the gathered elves, and everyone immediately split off to look for the tyke. Between the _aravels, _benches, rocks, worktables, trees, and hanging banners… there were lots of places for a being that small to hide.

Kazar wasn't the only one to check around the blanket for tracks, but the camp's ground was hopelessly packed: Tamlen's tread would be far too light to make any impression. He cast around a bit more, then noticed a weird dip in the foliage surrounding the camp. Some of the leaves were flattened. "Keeper!" he called, and moved closer to it.

Marethari was at his elbow in an instant, and the two of them peered into the brush. There, in the shallow snow, they could see the unmistakable signs of a tiny, hobbling tread wandering away.

"That is less encouraging," Marethari said softly. She pursed her lips and nodded toward the trail. "Go after him swiftly, _da'len_."

Kazar nodded and took off down the trail. It was a looping, meandering path. Fortunately, the dusting of the snow meant that even a poor tracker like Kazar never lost the trail for long.

He wound through a series of pine trees and spotted the child up ahead. Then, he saw where the child was, and his stomach dropped. The boy was sitting on the edge of a ridge that, judging by the height of the treetops behind him, stood a good twenty feet high. Tamlen didn't even seem to notice. His fluffy ginger hair was strewn with twigs and bits of pine, and he worked diligently at picking apart a pine cone, babbling softly to himself.

Kazar approached slowly, preparing to cast an earth spell at a moment's notice in case the baby fell in the wrong direction. He wasn't particularly quiet, though, and he froze as the baby looked over at him. Tamlen grinned and greeted him with, "Kasa!"

Slowly, Kazar crouched down and beckoned. "Come here, Tam. You wanna see the sparkly thing again?" He conjured a crystal of ice in his free hand: a trick that had always delighted the child.

Sure enough, Tamlen squealed a giggle. Kazar swore his heart stopped as the toddler wobbled to his feet six inches from a deadly drop. He took two precarious steps closer to Kazar, and the mage breathed a little easier.

Then, someone crashed through the trees nearby, and Kazar dropped his staff and lunged forward on sheer instinct, scooping up the toddler, who squealed like it was all in great fun, just as a trio of burly humans practically ran over both of them. For a moment, Kazar feared that the Templars had finally found him… but no, these men had the mismatched armor sets of mercenaries. Somehow, that was almost as bad.

"Well now, what's this?" one of them laughed in a brogue. They were all big, rough men, and far bigger than Kazar. They _loomed_ over him, looked at him with amused sneers. "A couple little elves wandering away from home?"

Kazar started to prepare a lightning spell to blast them back, only for the baby to yelp when the first spark snapped against his back, and Kazar realized with mounting horror that both his hands were full of squirming toddler.

Unaware of his dilemma, the humans advanced. He hugged the baby closer to himself and retreated a step back. This earned him a laugh from one of the thugs. He was completely helpless like this, but he didn't dare put the baby down around people like this.

"Leave us alone," Kazar said sharply.

The humans whooped. "Or what?" said the leader with a smirk. He had an ugly scar clinging to one side of his mouth.

"We're Dalish. If you harm us, the entire clan will come down upon you."

"That so?" They laughed, and the bald guy on the right lunged forward. Kazar skittered back, but not fast enough. A hand closed around his arm, and Kazar cast a spell that sent a bolt of electricity through their contact. The man jerked back with a yelp.

"Did you see that?" The shaggy man on the left said. "What was that?"

"You idiot," sneered the one in the middle, smirking darkly around his scar. "That was _magic. _Looks like we got ourselves an apostate, boys."

Crap crap crap crap. Kazar skittered away, but the shaggy one dodged around behind him, hemming him in. The toddler in his arms started squirming anxiously.

"Wonder how much the Chantry will pay us to bring him in, eh?" said baldy. He grabbed Kazar's arm again. The mage sent another spark of electricity into him, but the grip only tightened. He didn't dare cast anything more powerful with a kid in his arms. More, the manhandling was causing a certain part of his psyche to stir, which was _not okay_ when holding a baby. By the Fade, what would a demonic aura _do_ to someone that young?

This was so, so bad.

A blade prodded into the small of his back, and he grit his teeth and stumbled into motion as the men marched him forward. Tam was wiggling and whimpering by this point, and Kazar was helpless to do anything but bounce him and keep breathing. He concentrated on breathing, because anything else may send him over the edge into Prideland.

He was shoved out into a clearing, and he bit back a flash of sharp righteous fury. Child. Holding a child. Couldn't lose control. No matter how much he wanted to fireball these fools.

He was now standing at the edge of a camp, black tents and a handful of cooking fires scattered around the clearing. Men in armor lounged around it, eating and playing cards, and generally being people in a camp. They paused and looked up with varying levels of amusement as Kazar was hustled into camp by the dagger prodding his back.

There were, like, thirty of them. Even without the kid, his odds of successfully defeating all these heavily armed and armored people without being cut into pieces were slim.

Tam pushed at him, making unhappy noises, and Kazar shushed and bounced him like he'd seen some other members of the clan do. It did not seem to help much.

A tall, rangy man stood from the central fireplace and ambled over. "And what's this you got here, Keis?"

"Found 'em wandering near camp, boss. Dalish, from the looks of 'im."

"So kill them," said the man.

"The big one's a mage," said scarface, and the boss's interest was piqued. "We were thinking the Chantry would be real grateful if we brought him in."

"That so?" The boss stepped closer and leaned down to smirk at him. "You a mage, little knife-ear?"

His Pride spiked, and he snapped, "Get away from me."

The human jerked away in alarm, and Tam started crying in earnest, and only then did Kazar realize he was showing and think to rein in his Pride. It took him a moment to find himself again, especially given the added chaos of a crying child. "_Atisha_, Tam," he whispered into downy hair, though he was telling himself to be calm as much as the baby.

"Someone kill the brat to shut it up," the boss snapped, turning to walk away.

"You got it, boss," said baldy. The big man stooped to grab the child, and Kazar jerked away. He stomped a foot, casting a spell into the earth that shook the ground within five feet of him. The heavy humans were knocked off balance, and Kazar had time to stumble out of their immediate reach. The boss turned back around with a scowl, and a snap of his fingers was all it took for a dozen goons to stand and surround him.

"Resisting was monumentally stupid, knife-ear," said the boss with a sneer. "Now we'll have to teach you some respect for the Flint Company."

An increasingly familiar voice piped up behind him. "And here I was thinking we'd have to go through lengthy introductions." The boss turned sharply at it, and Kazar spotted Hawke standing on the other edge of the camp, her halberd resting casually on one shoulder and a smirk on her face. "Now we can skip straight to the fun part."

"And who are you?"

"Just a mercenary, like you boys. So you understand that it's nothing personal when I slaughter the lot of you. Just business."

The boss threw his head back and laughed, and the other men around the camp followed suit. "You and what army, missy?"

Hawke snorted in amusement. "See, that's the difference between your employer and mine. Your employer? He hired you unlucky bastards and trusted sheer numbers to make up for low standards. Prince Vael? He was smart enough to know that the only one he needed… was _me_." She gave a hand signal, and a hail of crossbow bolts fell like rain on the men surrounding Kazar.

The boss froze, taken aback as three of his men immediately fell. "Vael? But-"

She didn't give him a chance to finish the thought. She brandished her polearm and charged, sweeping his feet right out from under him. She wasn't alone, either: other figures burst from the treeline around the camp and attacked. The mercenaries turned to engage them, and Kazar took his chance to break away.

He clutched the crying child and tried to run for the treeline. He was blocked, however, by the shaggy guy, who stepped in with twin daggers glinting. Kazar skidded to a stop, and had to jerk back off-balance just to avoid having Tam become so many strips of meat. Shaggy slashed again, and Kazar twisted around protectively, taking a slash to the shoulderblade for the trouble. He started running again, even as he felt a dagger stab in lower on his back. A moment later, a bolt of magic soared past him, and the mercenary's feet were encased in rocks.

He spotted Merrill then, and headed straight for her. At any other time, he would have avoided her like the plague, along with all the uncomfortable _feeling things_ that came with her. But just now? Allies were good.

Merrill shot a series of icy blasts that froze his pursuers in his tracks, and he skidded to a stop beside her. "You're hurt!" she chirped.

"And holding a baby. Any other brilliant observations?" He set the wiggling tot down between them, then turned toward the battle in hopes of figuring out what, exactly, had just happened.

It was a melee the likes of which he hadn't seen since the Battle of Denerim. Everywhere he looked, armored figures congregated. A circle two-people deep surrounded Hawke, who merrily cleaved her way through the ranks of fighters who, unlike her, were smart enough to at least wear armor on their upper arms. Also, helmets.

It didn't seem to matter, though. Hawke was a whirlwind of deadly motion, decapitating one mercenary even while sidestepping another's thrust. In the next movement, she brought the butt of her halberd back into the nose of a man behind her, only to immediately stab it forward again into the eye of someone on her opposite side.

Equally deadly was the glowing blue form of the white-haired elf, Fenris. He tore across the battlefield recklessly, plunging into one trio of mercenaries, getting their attention with a flurry of painful slashes, and then charging off again to let someone else finish off his victims.

Which someone did: a woman with whirling daggers gladly swooped in his wake, executing each unlucky victim with a flourish. As Kazar watched, she turned and slipped up beside a man who was trading arrows with a certain dwarf sitting in a tree. Her daggers slipped easily into his back, and Varric gave her a grin and salute.

And then there were the mages. Merrill sowed a flurry of nature and earth spells around the battlefield, and Kazar was a little relieved to notice she'd eschewed blood magic for the moment. Good. Kazar felt a tingly spike of creation magic go through him, healing his injured back, and it took him a moment to identify the source. On the other side of the camp, Anders was casting gouts of ice magic between healing spells. A semi-circle of mercenaries were frozen in ice around him, and that was admittedly pretty hilarious.

Kazar cast one last glance down at Tam, who was sniffling and pouting at the elves' feet. He summoned a crib of vines to keep the tyke from wandering off again. Then, he called fire to his beck and rained it down upon the field in a torrent that, in all honestly, felt _really_ good.

Half the remaining mercenaries were caught in the firestorm, and they ducked and cried out as gouts of fire blasted down from above one after another. Two tried to duck behind the cover of a cart, but Kazar grinned and shot a fireball between them, sending them sprawling and setting one of them alight.

He spotted the bald guy who had manhandled him, engaging Fenris' huge sword with a gigantic maul of his own, and Kazar took his chance to blast the nughumper square in the back with a bolt of lightning. The bolt made a satisfying crack as it crossed the field, and the mercenary spasmed under the electrocution long enough for the white-haired elf to lop his head clean off. Fenris cast him a suspicious look across the field, then dove into his next opponent. Kazar was having too much fun to care.

He had to rein it in, however, as he realized that the power high was triggering his Pride. He didn't dare lose control here, in front of these people. Fenris, alone, seemed liklye to lop his head off before anyone thought to ask questions. He glanced down at the toddler while he calmed himself down, and noticed that Tam was crying again. Probably scared by the noise of the lightning bolt, now that he thought of it.

A trio of mercenaries charged toward him (likely _also_ scared by the lightning bolt), and scarface was among them. Before they could get within hitting distance, Merrill threw out an earthquake spell that had two of them hitting the dirt. The third, scarface, stumbled through it and continued his charge, his teeth gritted in determination. Kazar started calling a fireball spell to blast him, but another form interceded before he had the chance to finish it.

Hawke stepped in like a demon of terror, her halberd swinging around so that the wickedly curved blade at the end landed squarely across the man's ribcage. There was the crunch of steel armor buckling, and the muscles in Hawke's bare upper arms flexed as she brought her polearm back and around, smashing the butt end into the side of scarface's neck. The bastard went down with a grunt, and Hawke swooped her weapon around again, executing a spin before bringing the weapon's speared tip down into the man's exposed chest.

Kazar, despite himself, was rather impressed by the display. And apparently, Hawke could tell, because she held her pose like that and tossed a wink up at the two elven mages. Merrill grinned. "You're a little bit of a show-off, Hawke."

"Can't help it. If you were this awesome, you'd show off too." The human tore her halberd out of the corpse and turned to face the other two enemies, who were finding their feet behind her.

Kazar wasn't about to let her have all the fun. He summoned the ice from the air (cold spells were easier in winter, he'd noticed) and encased both in ice where they stood. Merrill set to pummeling one with rocks, while Hawke gleefully smashed through the other one with her weapon.

It was about this time that the remaining handful of mercenaries decided to cut their losses and turned to run. However, between three mages slinging immobilizing spells and a dwarven crossbowman with impeccable aim, not a single one reached the treeline.

The last one fell, and the camp was plunged in sudden silence, save for the tired crying of little Tamlen. Kazar bent down and picked up the toddler, summoning an ice crystal and dangling it in front of the boy in hopes of distracting him. Tam pushed it away, but at least settled down into whimpers and thrust his face into Kazar's robes.

"Is he all right?" Merrill asked, looking genuinely worried.

"Just scared, I think," he said, mindful not to speak too loudly for fear of setting him off again.

"Hey there, little Tam-Tam," Merrill leaned into Kazar's personal space to coo at the baby. Hey, _hello._ "You're a brave boy, aren't you?"

Tamlen hiccupped and babbled something.

"Of course you are. Just like your namesake, aren't you? Too adventurous for your own good." Merrill smiled, and damned if the baby didn't settle into Kazar a bit more, soothed. Kazar gave her a sour look, but she completely missed it.

"Not sure I agree with the wisdom of bringing a baby to a swordfight," Varric's voice said smoothly, and Kazar looked up to see that Hawke's little troupe had gathered nearby, all watching him with varying levels of curiosity. "But what do I know? Maybe it's a Dalish thing."

Anders, standing beside the dwarf, gave a little grin. "Me, I'd use it as a disarming tactic. You ever get into a tight spot against an opponent you can't beat, just throw a baby at them and run."

Varric chuckled. "Blondie, that is a little horrifying."

"What? It probably wouldn't get hurt. I don't care what sort of murderous monster someone might usually be; when you get tossed a baby, you _catch_ the baby."

Hawke tilted her head playfully at Anders. "Why do I see games of Toss-the-Baby going on at the Circle Tower, now?"

Anders chuckled. "Alas, we had no babies to throw; any 'accidents' tended to get shipped off to the Chantry as soon as their cords were cut. The closest thing we had was _him, _when he was little." Anders nodded toward Kazar. "Well, little-_er, _anyway."

"Bite me, Anders."

This only made the other mage grin at his leader. "You can see why tossing him around never became a thing."

Most of the assembled party chuckled at that. Fenris, at least, didn't… he was too busy watching Kazar suspiciously. Kazar was honestly not sure which was worse.

"So," Hawke said, looking annoyingly amused about this whole thing (and completely oblivious to the ample blood splattered across her person), "you two know one another, then?"

Kazar groaned. He _so_ did not want to relive the "good old days" with the Fereldan Circle's chronic runaway.

This only seemed to amuse said apostate even more. "We're both from the same Circle. I have to say, I never would have thought I'd see you among the Dalish, Kazar."

"I said _fricking_ _bite me_, Anders."

Again, most of them laughed.

This time, the other, as-yet-nameless woman spoke. "Is this little sweet thing yours?"

Kazar choked, and Anders _roared _with laughter.

"He belongs to one of the clan hunters, Isabela," Merrill supplied, finally straightening up out of Kazar's personal space, thank the spirits. Tam seemed to be dozing now. The heavy, motionless weight of him was making Kazar's arms ache. "But the whole clan watches him." She flashed Kazar a bright smile. "Last I saw him, he wasn't walking yet, but it looks like he is now, isn't he?"

"Are we done?" Kazar snapped, turning to Hawke. "Because I need to get him back to the clan."

Hawke enacted a dramatic, put-upon sigh. "That's gratitude for you. I swoop in and save the day, and I don't even get a thank-you for it."

"At least you're getting paid," said the Isabela woman off-handedly.

"Oh right. That helps."

Kazar grit his teeth. "Thank you," he forced out, and that only evoked more laughter from Anders and Varric. "But I need to go." _Before I blast the lot of you for being annoying fools._

Hawke nodded her permission, and Kazar turned on his heel and started stalking back to camp. "Take care, _lethallin_!" Merrill called behind him, and he could only huff under his breath as he left.

o-o-o-o

Halfway back to camp, he was met by a group of hunters tracking toward him, including a very grateful Radha who immediately took the baby out of his (aching) arms and checked him over for injuries. Her fellows (Harshal, Ineria, and Chandan) patted Kazar on the back and Harshal handed Kazar the staff he'd dropped back in the woods. They all turned and headed back to camp.

That night, Kazar told Marethari and a few of the other elders what had happened. When he was done recounting the tale, Marethari favored him with a smile that was downright _proud_. Warily, Kazar noticed that the others wore similar expressions (including _Paivel_, who Kazar had been convinced was actually in pain whenever he smiled).

"You are ready, _da'len_," Marethari said, with a note of solemn finality. The elders nodded in agreement, and Kazar's heartbeat sped up in both anxiety and excitement. Did they mean…

"Yes, child," the Keeper said, as always uncannily aware of his thoughts. "You are ready to truly become one of the People." She paused, and a note of amusement colored her voice. "Assuming, of course, that you have any interest in joining our clan."

They were all watching him, waiting for his answer. Paivel, and Ilen, and Vinnel, and Meila (who was not an elder, but she was as good as a sister, so that afforded her an audience in anything to do with him). All watched him expectantly, with knowing looks in their eyes. They did not look alarmed by the prospect, or disgusted… they looked proud. Of him. Blood mage, abomination, and all.

"Yes," he forced out through the lump in his throat. "Of course I do."

Marethari's smile widened, as if she had expected nothing less. "Then we will prepare your _vallaslin_, _da'len_. Tomorrow, you will join the Dalish in truth."


End file.
